100 Inspired Works
by Araceli L
Summary: I'm writing 100 pieces centering around one word, for Little Miss Independence's challenge! Featuring a variety of different characters, and a huge range of emotions and prompts, there's a little something for everyone to read in this still-yet-to-be-completed chapter fic.
1. Lonely

A/N: **soooo, I've decided to take Little Miss Independence's One Hundred Word Challenge, and I'll be writing a short piece (preferably shorter than my usual one-shots, but no guarantees) for each word. I'm actually really pumped about this, and hope to write the one-hundred chapters. So I've got quite a bit ahead of me. I'll be helping MoD with his contest, trying to keep up The Prince's Tale, and hoping dearly to wrap up Alone, and planning an epic three/four-shot for LoZ in my head. And those are just my writing plans. Nevertheless, I think this sounds like great fun and will almost be like a creative outlet for me. I don't expect many reviews, but I want to write all of this just the same. Well, here we go!**

Lonely

There was a certain joy that filled Pit as he spread his wings to the rising sun, ready to launch himself into the tumbling galaxies. And all the same, he thought, his dove wings _fwipping _out, it was a comet of different emotions.

Ecstasy in the wind coursing under him, his hair gone wild, his heart triphammering, the frantic mix of adrenaline and serenity that pulsed through him like an orchestra; those were all expected, welcome, loved. But tagging along with them were the feelings of confusion, guilt, but most of all, loneliness.

He tried to ignore it today as he took a moment to check his hammerspace, keeping his inventories in stock. But it bit at him like the frost in the north, the north he had once flew away from, the north he was chasing.

Of course, he wasn't chasing the north: no, he was following the North Star. And that sounded contradictive, he knew, but there was nothing more precious than a north star. The North Star held all the answers for him. He had to catch it.

He glanced about him one last time, drinking in the lush plants and the bright creatures, stalling to kiss this planet goodbye. It was really a beauty among the others he'd been through, but the dawn was coming quicker than his will to leave, so it was with reluctance he readied himself to leap.

His reluctance didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that North Star. He had to keep his telescopic eyes on his only hope, the narrow road, lest he be swept off, and God knew how easily that could be done.

And so many emotions followed into that. Loneliness was that key one; the one that caught his heart and told him to not move on any further. It reminded him exactly how alone he was, leaping from planet to planet, never able to call one a love or even a friend. He was alone.

But there was a determination that filled Pit that didn't normally. He had never been this motivated to hunt down the answers to everything, but that was it, really. It was the answer to everything. That was why he had to catch. This hope was the only north star he'd follow this far. And that was the reason he loved his loneliness, reveled in it: it reminded him of exactly what he was going after.

And he plunged forward, his feet pounding hollowly on the ground, his wings slowing him only slightly, their streamline shape creating thin angels of air behind him; he reached the edge, the tip of the iceberg, dear God there was no turning back now; the music played insanely as he hurled himself over the cliff, sheer rock face looming to meet him; but in that instant, that thrilling, mad moment where he was almost certain of his doom, his wings were there to catch him, trustworthy as always; a victorious grin creased his face as he billowed up into the clouds, the sudden force of his wings skyrocketing him upward.

And he turned his face forward, to meet that North Star – when the sun went black.

He cried out, unable to see, to think, to understand – mostly, unable to understand. What had _happened? _What was going on? Why—

And then he was in freefall, he could feel it, his wings were _gone_ – where were they? What had happened to his wings? __ Where were his wings?

And yet the sun was a rich, saturated ebony in his blue eyes, winking cruelly. It wasn't a trick of his mind, or eyesight, no sun-blindness. This was _real. _And that thought wasn't doing much to help him.

He could hear the wind whistling around the rocks he was plummeting toward, thoughts fluttering through him like ribbons in the breeze, unable to catch a single one. He needed to stop this. He was going to die, falling through space, alone and lonely. No one would remember him, no one ask where he was. He was alone.

He hated his loneliness, his lack of company, a companion, a friend, anything. He hated it, not because he was rushing toward his doom, but because no one would save him from his doom.

Squeezing his once-bright eyes shut tight, the fallen angel awaited for death.

But then a light sparkled through his lids, and he was prompted to open then. He did, and squinted in the abrupt shine, wondering if death had come, swift and sweet. But it wasn't death.

It was a glimmer, coming toward him, coming for him. No longer could he feel the wind, no longer could he hear the gale, no longer could he feel his body. Was he falling? The only thing he could feel were his eyes, and these moved frantically as he tried to pinpoint the blinding light.

And all at once his eyes flew open.

It was the North Star, coming to save him. It had come for him. It was helping him. And as he stared at it, gaped, he could feel his wings returning; far away, the sun was a cold pearl-grey, dim next to the Star. The sunshine had once been multi-colored mirrors, but now the rays were like snow compared to the North Star. Compared to his Star. Compared to his hope.

He felt himself regain control of his body, and with a sudden, certain assurance, he knew he wasn't going to fall. He was alright. And most of all, he wasn't alone.

That was when he realized, with the world turning warmer and warmer by the second, that the Star was saving him, but he still needed to find it. It wanted him to chase it. It was encouraging him along lovingly, but it knew he was up to the challenge. It was his saving grace and no matter how lonely Pit had felt in those early sunrises on different galaxies, it had always been with him. It had never left him alone, and it never would.

It wouldn't forget him, and him would never be alone. It would never let him fall. It…loved him. It loved him dearly.

And the sun was a glinting white diamond in the gentle blue sky, the same sky Pit was cruising through leisurely, his pure-ivory wings soft and strong.

It hit him then, what had happened, but when he gazed through the heavens, the Star wasn't there. But when he looked ahead, to what was to come, he could see it, faintly, sparkling like a warm smile.

He smiled back, soaring through the sky, and ultimately his feelings of loneliness vanished right around him. He wasn't alone. He had never been alone. He had no reason to feel lonely.

The North Star was with him.

And it was the only North Star he'd follow that far.

A/N: **So…yea, for a while I trailed off the subject, but you know, I realized it works. Loneliness doesn't necessarily (key word **_**necessarily; **_**I still made it one in this story) have to be a bad thing, and a story titled "Lonely" doesn't have to be sad. I realized I'd rather focus on the positive thing, such as loneliness disappearing, so there's that. And I really like this piece. Unfortunately I think it gets too sloppy toward the end, especially after what I thought was a great start (I got a bit carried away, then realized I needed to keep the main idea in tact). And really this is pretty symbolic, if you couldn't figure it out. The North Star is God. (Yyup, I'm a Christian, if you didn't know.) I understand that Pit's goddess is Palutena, (sp?) and so forth, but I really was gonna use Pit anyway, but this is more me trying to find my way back to God. You know, sort of an epiphany moment for me, and this piece was born:) And I do think the loneliness works. Anyway, sorry for the long author's notes. Surprisingly, I'm not concerned with the reivews…and I think that's good. I'm satisfied with this, and I don't need reviews (not that I wouldn't like them;). Wow. I think I just grew up a little bit.**

**Hope you enjoyed, sorry for trailing on, thanks for reading and review if you feel it's necessary! ;)**

**~Araceli L**


	2. Wings

**A/n: Chapter 2 of 100 Inspired Works! I think this chapter's a bit too much like the other one, and even has a reference to Pit, and unfortunately by dumb luck the next chapter will too. And I'm not even that fond of Pit…oh well, here's my attempt to make this chapter different than the other one. And cheers to my first time writing about Fox! I'm sorry if I've gotten any information/canon wrong.**

Wings

Fox McCloud nodded in the breeze, his fur ruffling. His ears picked up for a moment, listening to the shriek of the wind. A storm. Perfect.

Making his humble way over to his galactic ship, the pilot admired it for a second. What a beauty she was, the majestic Great Fox, aerodynamic and gliding like a leaf. How easily she rode the sky, conquering new universes and star settlements, bold and brave. She was a beauty, for sure.

But he wouldn't be piloting the great aircraft today. No, he thought sadly, as he activated a code on his technological bracelet around his wrist. No, as much as he wished he could, it was off-limits. Purely for show, just like everything else in this death trap.

The boarding door swung down slowly, like a sleepy giant, from the side of the ship, and Fox waited patiently, his mind making mini calculations and what he should fix on the ship and what he could do himself and how much he could pay for parts for repairs and –

Oh, yes. It didn't matter. Master Hand would take care of it.

Sighing, he walked up the plank, listening to the dull thud of his boots on the silver titanium, remembering what he and Falco cheered to as "the old times" on many a drunken night. The days they, and the rest of their comrades, and flown through the sky, battling evil and saving damsels, the whole hero shin-gig. And they had been heroes.

Maybe some sacrifices just aren't worth giving.

He continued on through the insides of the great beast, winding along thin corridors and navigating it like he'd known it his whole life – which, of course, he had. Of the few things he knew, but excelled in, this ship was one of them. It was his home, no matter what Master Hand encouraged among the Smashers.

But maybe the whole thing revolved around what a sacrifice was _really_.

At last, he reached the front, right below the command deck of the ship. Here was the loading/carry compartment, and here rested a few of the last arwings. The slim, sleek airships glinted dully in the dim light, and Fox approached them with a strange but familiar feeling of apprehension in his tummy. His favorite, his personal one, was at a stop a few feet from him, where he had last left it. Without a second thought he opened the top and climbed inside with the familiarity and agility of one who absolutely knew what he was doing, which, of course, he did.

Was this a sacrifice? Of course it was. Was the contest a sacrifice? Hell yeah.

A sudden twist of irony made him smirk, at himself, at his fortune, at the way he thought about things and his pathetic self-pity. He was Fox McCloud, dammit, and he wasn't a pity failure.

But those thoughts didn't help, and made him feel even worse. He shrugged it off, or tried to, and concentrated on activating another button on his bracelet, allowing the airlock to open in the front of the ship. It was only accessible from the inside, as to prevent intruders. Slippy, however stupid he was, had somehow thought of that.

But he missed Slippy. He missed his annoying, croaking voice. He missed Krystal. He missed his crew standing behind him as he piloted the Great Fox, with Peppy telling hilarious stories of his, Fox's, father James, and Falco's good-natured irritation with his flying skills. He missed everything about the "good old days".

Shaking his head, Fox backed the arwing out to turn it around, and once he had done so, waited for a moment, his hands clenched on the controls.

This airship, resting in his home, had given him wings. And they had taken them away.

Then the arwing rocketed forward, out the port, and twirled into the cloudy sky. Inside, the pilot's face widened into an almost frightening grin, not the least bit dizzy from the tight corkscrew launch. His body was used to it, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, which, of course, he had.

He had never felt as alive as when he was in the sky, yet so dead.

These were his wings, this is what skyrocketed him and gave him a boost. This is where he felt comfortable, this is what gave him hope and kept him moving forward, and this is what he trusted in. These were his wings.

And they'd stolen them from him.

This was the sacrifice he was making, one of many, anyway. He missed his ships. He missed his friends. He missed everything that wasn't the contest, the Manor, the Smashers.

He missed his wings.

With his wings he could fly away, he could find his crew and they could be heroes again – they could brave dangers again, fight battles and gain something in the end. And that was one of the things he hated about the contest – the battles. There was no thrill in these battles, no purpose, no gain. He faced nothing but losing if he lost. There was no threat of death or torture if he didn't prevail, but he had stopped prevailing because he saw no point.

He never felt so alive and so dead.

With instincts that had been honed over his entire life, he made a sharp turn, nearly completely around, and plummeted downward. He loved the ground rushing toward him like a hungry mouth, waiting to swallow him, and it was with slight rue that he thrust the controls upward again, blowing the grass flat and the tail of the arwing nearly skimming the soil. Dimly he wondered what would have happened if he had let it crash.

Nothing, he knew. He was practically immortal here, because Master Hand couldn't have any pesky legal matters to deal with during the tournament.

He never felt so alive and so dead.

He couldn't die. And that made him feel so utterly dead. There was no thrill, no adventure, no danger, no dragon waiting to eat you Dear Lord this is it please; No enemies, no problems, no wings. He'd been forced to sacrifice his wings.

Maybe it was a good thing, or so thought Master Hand, but when you take away one's will, purpose, and intent, fight to live and fire to win, you leave him with nothing to work for, and no dreams. You tell him to be a good pet and strip him of his wings.

At times Fox envied Pit, but not now. Right now, barreling through the sky with nothing but him and the controls, Fox pitied him. If this was what Fox was missing, he couldn't imagine was the angel had lost.

Fox McCloud had been reduced to stealing away for just a moment to regain his wings, just to remember the good days. And he couldn't do anything about it. Had he been able to, he would've grabbed Falco a long time ago and the two of them would have high-tailed it out of here, but they were trapped. Part of it was those pesky legal matters Master Hand was determined to manipulate (which he did well) and the other part was serious, physical restraint. He _could not leave. _

So Fox was left piloting the quiet sky on wings that couldn't take him anywhere, wishing for the good old days, wishing for his wings.

A/n: **I really like this piece too. Thanks to: Eggplant Witch: Hey, great to see you on FF again! Of course you'd be drawn to the Pit fic :D And thanks, that's exactly what I was trying to do! Thanks for reviewing:) And AvidAkiraReader: Well, it's nice to meet Akira Hand but I'd like to meet AAR (or so I've shortened you:) and don't worry, I'll continue. And by the way, it's you that got me interested in doing it in the first place! So I thank you for reviewing and for sparking my interest. **

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!**

**~Araceli L**


	3. Angel

**A/N: So, third chapter! The word is Angel. I was inspired by 1) my sister's friend's wedding, which was beautiful, and really made me think, and 2) the song "Your Guardian Angel" which I just found out was by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. So it's not mine, and neither are a few of the lyric/references I slip in. But that's the beautiful thing about fanfiction: I don't really have to worry about copyrights/permissions. Woot. Enjoy!**

Angel

I feel like crying. It's a strange emotion for me, especially on a day like this. The sun is shimmering through the air, filtering nervous laughter and hushed voices. The breeze is sweet, caressing my skin and sweeping my blond hair along my face. I brush it away impatiently, trying not to lose my view on you. It's the way it's always been.

I remember long ago, when we met. You were beautiful, dear, and I can honestly say you've only grown in your beauty. Or maybe "grown into" is a better description. I remember your spunk, the way you giggled and gently held a butterfly in your cupped hands. Do you remember that that's how I began to call you butterfly? I don't think, at that age, that we realized any of this would come to pass.

My hands begin to tremble, and I hastily stiffen them against my pants leg. But I'm shaking all over, like the last autumn leaf. I want to laugh in my absurdity, at and in my fear. Nervousness, but never doubt. No, I've never had a doubt about this. I didn't realize it would happen, but if I think about it, I never doubted it would. I've never had a doubt about you.

Maybe it was something about the way you looked at me – tender and warm. I couldn't live without that look, those eyes – brilliant and sapphire and loving. Perhaps it was the way you acted to me that one night, the way you danced and fit so comfortably in my arms. But I think it was my stolen kiss.

Everyone is standing around us, though we are far apart. Much too far apart. I can't bear to be away from you, even if it is for a short while. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and that is exactly what I intend to do. I want to be there with you through it all. And I will be.

When we were young, I remember thinking the same thing. The idea scared me for a minute – I didn't understand why I had thought it, and all I could think of was the reasons why it wouldn't work. I was too young. I couldn't love anybody. I didn't know what love was. I had a whole life to live, why would I condemn myself to one person? The world was full of surprises and hidden joys. Why would I throw that away?

But I was wrong, so wrong. I was weak. I was scared of love, I was afraid of the hurt that accompanied it, the rush of emotions and the confusion.

But now that I'm strong, I've figured out just how cold the world is. And I've learned how warm it is in your smile.

I turn my gaze to the left, and abruptly the breath is gone from my lungs.

There is an angel coming toward me, in all her blinding glory. She seems to shine, from the smile on her face. Her beauty is unbelievable to anybody who doesn't know her the way I do, which is nobody else. She's a living star, and most specially, my true love.

I gaze in awe at her, not quite sure what the expression on my face looks like. But she locks eyes with me – I'm lost in them – and grins, such a gorgeous grin my heart seems to expand.

And I want to cry again – it's such an abrupt, unexpected, unfamiliar feeling. But it's from her smile – her grace, her majesty, her wonderment and everything that she is. Maybe I would have wondered how she loves me the way she does, but I never have. We are meant to be together. I'm her guardian angel, and she's my angel.

Some people think Pit's the only angel in the manor, but it's not true. It's her. It's my sweet, true love, my whole heart.

She quietly makes her way up the aisle, wreathed with flowers that are paled by her beauty, past our fellow Smashers. It's a small, humble wedding, but she doesn't care and neither do I. All she wanted as for them all to be there, and every one of them smiles at her, a few of them breathing out sighs of endearment as she passes. She smiles back at all of them, and I see that Peach has her hand to her heart and the other to her mouth. Then she looks at me and winks, goodwill and kindness etched across her face.

I remember when the sun rose, so quickly after I kissed you softly. I remember how quiet the seconds were after that moment, how shocked you looked as your eyes pierced mine. My heart was thudding rapidly in my chest, much as it is now, in a way no adventure can do. I was hoping, praying, that you wouldn't walk away, that you wouldn't throw that away, that kiss that meant so much.

I remember the color rising into your cheeks, how your eyelashes tickled me, how close we were. I remember the delight you tried to hide, before I gathered the courage again to lift your chin so you would look me in the eye. I wanted you to pierce me with those eyes. And when you did, I remember the very moment my life changed.

The angel is so very near to me, and then she is across from me. My breath is coming in short gasps, but then she smiles at me, happiness radiating from her expression. Suddenly all I can think of is my elation, and the tension seeps out of me. All I need is your smile.

We grasp hands, and I revel in the smooth, gentle grip of your hand. That odd, crying feeling is back, but ecstasy is stronger. A thousand thoughts are zipping through my mind, but only one is in focus: the moment my life changed.

You kissed me back.

The minister, or, as we improvised in the thrown-together wedding plans, Meta Knight, begins the ceremony. I feel light as air, and my gaze is locked in yours, just as my love is. Sometimes I was worried of embarrassment on this day, and in fact I hear a few good-natured snickers from who I identify automatically as Snake, but I realize my worriment was for naught. I am proud, so proud to show off my love of you to them, even if it ruins my "tough" image. Perhaps not my image, but shows just how much you've changed me, for the better.

I remember the seasons, how quickly they passed after my life changed. Not every day was perfect, of course, because we're just humans. But something not everybody realizes is those fights, those squabbles and the quarrels made us stronger. I know I'll, we'll, be okay. I've never doubted it.

And then the moment comes, and the short being asks for the vows. I look you in the eye, and I see a hint of curiosity in your encouraging smile. I kept my vows simple, hoping dearly you'd know how much they mean.

"I will never let you fall. I will stand up with you forever, and I'll be there with you forever. I promise, on my life and on my love, to never break these vows."

When I look up from the scrap of paper, I see the tears in your eyes, overflowing with love. Sometimes I don't understand how there can be so much love between us, but I've never cared too much.

You read your vows, and I want to gape at the beauty and thought you put into them. It makes mine sound like something a child would write, but when you finish, you're crying. Without worrying about the ceremony, I brush the tears away, and you rest your head against my hand for a moment. I think the audience is sighing, but for a second there's just you and me and nothing else matters. Nothing else ever has. It's always been you.

Then Meta Knight continues, and my heart is racing. This is it.

"Knight Link Eiyu of Hyrule, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

With a grin that's as triumphant as it is loving, I say, "I do."

"And Princess Zelda Tenshi of Hyrule, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

It's not that I think she'll say no, but my heart skids to a halt as I hold my breath. It's silly, it's immature, but I do it anyway.

Her angelic face is rapt. "I do."

"Then I pronounce you man and wife. Link, you may kiss your bride!"

I wrap you into my arms, unhesitant and almost unthinking, but your kiss is gentle and sweet. I twirl you around, and I hear the Smashers cheer and holler, but again they disappear. There's only you and me in this world of our own, and that's the way it will always be. I'm your guardian angel, and you are my angel.

You are my angel.

**a/N: so, I have pretty mixed feelings about this one. I kinda love it, kinda think it's sloppy…I dunno. Yea, I couldn't resist doing a LinkxZelda fic. I've only done one and hinted at them other times, and they're my favorite pairing, so. Thanks to Masked Jay! Hey, sure thing, I'll make it about Ganondorf. I'm glad you asked! Feel free to request a character. **

**So, I hope you enjoyed! Please review. Thanks for reading! Oh, and by the way, I meant to put this in the other chapter: MessengerofDreams, if you're out there, congrats on the contest! And I'll get back to your email soon. Had to write this first.**

**~Araceli L**


	4. Apology

A/n: **Chapter four, Apology. Now, I originally had a much better idea for this chapter but that's gonna be released as "Happiness is A Warm Gun" because I think it'll be some of the best I've done. Not that I slack on other things, but yea. I want that one to get to more people, mostly because I don't think too many people are reading this. Again, I don't care too much, and all in all I'm excited to see what I can get away with ;) Oh yes, be frightened. In a good way. Anyway, sorry for rambling, and this piece I wrote a while back and is up on my… account. It um…well, my parents divorced about a year ago…I never took it well…This definitely isn't some play-by-play…And…well…I think I've written a lot about the divorce…just nobody's seen it much till now. Of course I revised things so they would fit in with SSB, but, yea. I'm better now, and as you'll read I did at one point consider cutting…I tried it, I considered suicide, but I never had the guts and well I'm still here. So, it's hard, and I'm not making this stuff up. Yes I did dramatize, but I think writers have a liberty to, and I'm still rambling…**

Apology

_You never think it'll happen to you, until it does._

_Perhaps you laughed or joked or smiled, perhaps not._

_Either way, you never expected you'd be dying._

The young boy's eyes clouded in agony as he turned away, away from everything he'd ever found security in, although he hadn't known it until now. He hadn't known anything until this day, although, until this day, he'd claimed to know everything.

_Nothing is the same until you've lived it_

_And nothing is the same when you have_

_There's nothing you can know for sure_

_And there's nothing or no one to blame._

He'd laughed, he'd shouted in joy, he'd leaped like the buck and playacted as his father, the great hero that he was. But he'd never known, for a hero, how much pain his father could cause.

_Is there such a thing as a hero?_

_A brave warrior, a savior, a hero?_

_But indeed, how can we call one a hero_

_When that hero is tearing us apart?_

The boy was burned out, he was beaten, he was bruised. And he'd never spoken a word. He could not pull himself out of this gaping abyss, because it was his home. And his home was growing wider every day, with the space between his parents expanding every moment.

And every moment was sending him tumbling further into that abyss.

_You stumble and you fall_

_Yet they cannot seem to hear that you cried_

_But perhaps someday, when they finally can tell_

_That you're dying, you will have died._

And no one knew it. No one could see his shrouded blue eyes, as misty as the skies in the morning that he stared at; no one could hear his sobs, his screams as he repeatedly entertained his welcome and repulsive deathly thoughts. No one was there to save him.

_And you must inch along the ridge_

_Because you cannot cross the bridge_

_They built of pain and suffering_

_Because hate repels you as dark repels light._

He never wanted this. He never thought this would happen. …Was this really happening? Could he bear to hang on?

It would be so much easier to drift into the oblivion, thoughtless, immortal, secure, and painless, forever.

_Ah! To be free, to be able, to be saved;_

_If only you could see what you know now, back then_

_Perhaps your life would not be razed_

_And perhaps you would never have to be broken._

He'd heard about it, from his two young mountain-climbing friends, but it hadn't been their parents. He'd never understood it, but he'd watched his young blond friend go through the pain. The psychic had wept on his shoulder, and the blue-eyed boy had attempted to console him, but his pain was unbearable to see.

Imagine how it would be to feel.

_Anguish can only haunt you once it's felt_

_And then it will never leave you unscathed_

_Perhaps if you had only been that dealt_

_The cards, you'd pass yourself a new hand._

Now he couldn't bear to look someone in the eyes, because he knew that person was free. He couldn't ask for help, because then he was vulnerable. He couldn't show anyone his pain, because he would be rejected.

And if he was rejected anymore, he would reject himself.

_Every day you paint the same old smile on your face._

_Everyday it's the same old mask._

_But my mask is cracking, fading, peeling away;_

_And I don't know how to make it last._

He turned away from their shouts as they bellowed at each other, the accusations that rang in his ears as he silently sobbed. They never knew how he listened at the banister, his father's blade pressed readily to his tender arm. They never saw the scars that marred his far-too-young arms, that were slashed dangerously near to his wrist. They never heard him as he begged them to stop.

They never knew how he slowly died.

_Don't you see these painful scars?_

_The simple lies written on my arms_

_An oath-breaking with a knife_

_Much better than living with so much strife._

His mother, red-eyed and trembling, shakily told him how much she loved him. She wrapped her thinning arms around his blond head, but his impassive face over her shoulder said everything.

She needn't say "I love you" anymore.

"_I love you" is the worst kill of all._

_It scars as it stings as it smirks,_

_All wishing and wanting for it to hurt._

The boy turned away, because he couldn't bear to see hear her lies. "I love you" was nothing more than the worst lie of all, nothing but a scam and a fake. "I love you" was an after-killer, the thing that snared you when you thought you'd leaped away.

There was no apology.

If she loved him, then why did she hurt him?

_Tears like diamonds drop, sparkling_

_Inside my head my mind is kindling_

_In my hands I count my sorrow_

_Hoping only to live through tomorrow._

His mind bounded and fled and cried and shed tears, though his face was utterly smooth. Eventually it would turn stoic, and even further along, it would turn hateful.

There was no apology.

And all because of "I love you."

But how can one be loved, if the ones who claim they love you are the ones that kill you?

A/N: **Sorry for the emo-fest. Figured it fit in with "Apology". Thanks to: JSparks! Aw, your welcome, and I'm so glad you read it! MoD: Wow, thanks so much! I'm so pleased you liked it so much! *blushes* thank you! **

**So, be on the lookout for "Happiness is a Warm Gun"!**

**Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed (somewhat, you know) and please review.**

**~Araceli L**


	5. Forget

A/n: **Ha, spontaneous piece. This is pretty…personal. I'm getting butterflies thinking about publishing it, but just pretend it was written by Nana and there I stuck to the SSBB guidelines. It's not personal in a way the last one was. It's like…m-Nana, yes Nana, spilling her feelings. Btw, she's a writer too. (What are the odds!) Oh crap. I can't even upload tonight. Screw you, internet. And I absolutely promise I'll return to SSB regulations after this. I'm testing your limits right now, at what you'll let me get away with ;)**

**Forget**

It's late. It's late and I shouldn't be up but I am. Damn hormones.

You know, there are a lot of things troubling about being a teenager; preferably with myself there's a lot more things than the average. I think I was born middle-aged.

But that's unimportant.

…

There's a certain type of ghost that haunts me at these times of the night, when my eyes won't stay closed and my mind won't halt. Every time I try it screeches and that noise keeps me up louder. But that's not what stands over my bed, breathing loudly and trying to snag my blanket away.

It's something that doesn't scare me, but makes me turn over and scream into my pillow, but a silent scream, afraid to break the silence of the night. I hate that silent scream. If I had my way I would scream and shriek my lungs out until everybody in this idiotic going-nowhere-fast town was up and wondering what in the bloody hell was wrong with me, that weird girl down the block with a messed up family life.

Sometimes I wonder if I want them to.

Now, I if anybody know that not all attention is good attention; preferably, to me, that's what, well, more _promiscuous _– yea, let's say that – girls think. And exactly the reason my friend likes to trash them as "slutty hoebags". She may have a point, but sometimes I think she needs to check her own eye for a plank of wood.

But that's not important either, not my friendship troubles or relationship issues or fucked-up but hey getting better family or constant insomnia. It's forgetting that's troubling me.

_Forget. _A word that can manipulated just as easily as those promiscuous girls can.

There are so many things I want to forget – check aforementioned list – but there's something about the act of forgetting itself that scares me.

Forgetting is the ghost that lingers over my bed, that diseases me with insomnia, that sends shivers down my spine. Forgetting is the thing that runs its hand through my hair and lulls me into false security. Forgetting is the thing that makes me want to scream so loudly I can hardly bear it.

I want to forget so badly - I want to let that ghost in - but I'm so frightened to. There are things I want to forget but I'm afraid I'll also forget those memories I cherish. I suppose the real problem is it's so hard to tell which is which.

I wonder if I'd rather forget everything just to live in peace - ignorance is bliss, after all. Perhaps Forgetting is bliss. That's what he croons in my ear every night, anyway.

But if I forgot everything...I'd forget everything that brought me this far, that made me who I am, that is shaping me, and I'll forget the good memories too.

My hands are shaking. I'm so restless. I want to run and jump and do something crazy. I want to do something shocking. I want people to look at me and remember me for that thing I did – I want to do _something._

And remember how I told you about how not all attention is good attention? I still believe that. But sometimes you reach a point where you just want to be remembered.

And that's why I want to do something so absolutely crazy, fun, wild or honorable. That's why the ghost is hovering over me, even now. That's what makes me terrified of him.

I'm so terrified of being forgotten. It scares me in a way no Stephen King book can, no stupid movie or even tornado can. And the thing is – I don't even need the glory for myself.

Some people want to be a legend, and I know why – it's the closest thing we have to being immortal. Personally, my legend is John Lennon – I don't know who will forget him. But I can see why people are so obsessed with it. I'm not.

I'm not scared of dying. In the past few years it's not an issue anymore. This earth is a short thing, and I know that. But I have faith in the Lord and I know where I'm going. I'm going to Heaven. I know I am. There are so many people I want to meet there – and then I'll finally meet him.

Him, with a lowercase 'h' and not a capital. Of course I want to meet my savior, but when I say him, I mean…I'll finally meet my older brother.

Sometimes I'll catch myself dreaming about him. I wonder what he was like. I wonder if he would have liked me. I wonder if he's better than my "brother" now, and I wonder if he would have done any of those brotherlike things my earthly brother doesn't. I feel sorry for him, too, because he is forgotten. Perhaps my mother still pains over him, but he never had a chance to make his case. He is forgotten.

But I also envy him so much for that – he is perfect, in bliss, amazing and whole. God bless you, brother.

So maybe being forgotten can be a good thing. But I'm still here, I'm alive. I'll die someday, and I know it, but hell do I wanna go out with a bang.

Like I said, I don't need all the glory for myself. Bringing glory to God – yes, I can. But that's not necessarily what I'm talking about, glory. I'm talking about forgetting.

I guess there's something about being at the top – when you feel you're strongest, undefeated, proud and true. You feel like nothing will stop you. You're perfect. You will never mess up.

But then something knocks you down, something hits you off your high horse and when you're sprawled there, on the dust, your crown tumbled in the dirt and your purple velvet mucked, you truly learn what humility is.

And you're forgotten.

But then, as you crawl on your knees, you learn that when you're humble you can find everything you need to be honest, and it will put you in a better position than your horse ever got you. You find that you can piece together something entirely knew and make something entirely greater. But never try to glue together the old scraps. It never works.

But I'm still forgotten – who knows me? And yes, I am talking about myself as a writer, but also a person – who knows me? I want to be a good writer, in _general, _NOT a good writer "for my age". Those three words are taboo to me, and I'm like a black cat when I hear them: I shrink back and hiss and foam at the mouth. Yeah. That's how much I hate them.

I'm just a girl, out here somewhere in the world, in a tiny town that can't house any of my big-city dreams. I live in a broken family and all the pets I've had have died. Grapefruit juice is my favorite drink and Stephen King is my favorite author, and the Beatles are my favorite band. I love to dance and I'm also a photographer, and I sing into a hairbrush. I'm a video-game nerd and just a nerd in general, I take too much pride in my works and I love roller-coasters. I have a poster of Taylor Launter in my room even though I hate Twilight, and I'm far too picky in the books I read, and my secretly favorite band is Owl City. I'm just me. And I'm so terrified that's not good enough.

The ghost that wraps me in his arms reminds me all the time about the people that _are _remembered. And they're not "Just like me". They all did something great. Because that's how people are remembered.

I want to make it big because of the talent I possess – and, being the realist that I am, I believe I have at least _some _talent in writing – and I want people to know my name. As far as I'm concerned, any money I made could be sent to kids in third-world countries, cancer research, sciences, arts, and the PETA. All I would ask from it is enough money to pay for college tuition and an iPad, and maybe another pair of Converse. Then I would do and could do what I do best – write. All I want to do is write.

But if I'm not remembered…I can't write. I can't write for a living, which is all I want to do. I want to spend the rest of my days writing and writing and writing – I have such a passion in my soul for doing it, I almost can't explain. It's my God-given gift and how I thank Him for it. Now if I could just figure out how to use it.

But I only have one life to live, and one time to live it. Maybe…I can just shoot for my dreams and try as hard as I can. Maybe someday…I'll be remembered.

I hope I don't sound like I'm striving for attention. I'm not. But I want to be a remembered as much as the next person. And honestly, I think I know what I'm really after:

I want to change the world.

And how can I, right now, the way I am? Just a teenager wrapped in a thousand comforters in this awfully chilly room, watching beauty videos even though I don't wear make-up, watching Tosh.O when it's on? How can _somebody like me _possibly do _ANYTHING _to change the world?

And my ghost calls to me, his breath heavy and icy. He reminds me just how small I am in this world. And he tells me just how easy it is to be forgotten. _Nobody knows your name, anyway._

…

Well…I think I can start by being honest.

I think I can start by faith.

Faith in myself – because who better to be than yourself? "You'll learn how to be you in time."

Faith in God – because he will guide me, and he will give me answers.

Faith in my dreams – because they're here for a reason.

Faith that things will get better – because they just might.

And maybe…with faith, hope, and love, I really will be remembered…and I really just might change the world. As myself.

Take that, Forgetting.

A/n: **Written spur-of-the-moment…I can't sleep. Told you I was gonna see what I could get away with. And because I'm publishing/uploading this at 3:30 in the morning you know what that means – less people to see it!**

**Thanks to: JSparks, MoD, Inkwoven: the only reason I'm replying to you guys as a segment is because I want to shower you with a tremendous thank you. You were so encouraging to me, especially at that piece, which was written at such a hard time in my life. I want to thank you so much for making me feel welcome and comforted and okay with such a personal thing. Thank you so much.**

**So, I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading! Please review:)**

**~Araceli L**


	6. Blood

a/n: **So, this piece was written listening to "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" and "Paper Planes", and I was trying to capture the spirit of both and maybe make an awesomesauce fusion. You know, for the most part, in my own opinion I succueed and I am proud of this piece. Also, this is might up the rating to a T. Be warned before you read this that sympathy doesn't play a part in this piece.**

**Blood**

The sun beats down on me through the window, sweltering in my tunic, sweat rolling down my tanned skin. I wipe my forehead and breathe deeply, then smile. There's nothing to this job.

Of course I didn't have much of an idea how much of me it would require, but I found as I progressed that there really is nothing to it. As long as I don't think too much about it, of course. But that's easy.

I get to my feet casually, feeling my weapon shift next to my stomach. I ignore the pinch of pain as it catches on the skin, and feel the awful sweat from sitting on the hot, hard wooden bench. I cast one last glance out the glass and send up a quick prayer to whoever the hell's listening.

Then I make my way forward, through the crowded aisle, dodging swerving passangers and scrambling kids. They all look the same in my eyes, but I know I look the same to them. I blend in effortlessly with these hungry, beaten, desperate people.

Perhaps the worst thing about my job is how much I enjoy it. That's definitely the worst part, actually. I didn't think I would. But now it's all I wanna do.

My boots would leave dirty tracks on the floor, but the cheap metal is so grimy they don't make much of a difference. I'm nearing the front now, knowing somewhere deep in my mind – mind, never heart – that I am about seven seconds from death.

But it doesn't bother me.

I'm at the front of the crowded car, wondering dimly how this will go down, when I feel a tug on my cape. Surprised, I twist as much as I can, and to further my curiosity my gaze is met with that of a young boy's.

He has dark brown skin, a richer, warmer tone than Africans, but it stretches tightly, meagerly over his skeletal frame. His loose-fitting shirt hangs around his knobby knees, and his bare feet are covered in dried mud. I wonder for just a second what measly job he's being forced to work, but then his bright green eyes, so rare and bright in his face, plunge into mine.

I feel abruptly guilty, and it threatens to overwhelm me, so I close my eyes quickly. It's like my all my past, thrown far behind, has come to shroud me; it's like running away from the monster only to find it's waiting to ambush you.

But when I open my eyes he's looking down, toward his caked feet. Then he mumbles something, and even through everything in my life, these words manage to stop my heart for a split second.

"Will you shoot me?"

My heart's in my throat, no, that's just my mind with silly clichés, a heart is just a muscle in my chest, not a point for emotions, which I also try to discard.

But –

_Please don't make me please don't remember me for your own good please. Please._

It's obvious he's recognized me, and so that's why I'm so suddenly terrified. Yes, that's why. I'm worried everybody else might, and I know the time for my escape is dire.

But I have the weird desire to shoot him.

I must get out of here before one of them can start up a frenzy, before the authorities are brought in. I have to get out of here.

I stare down at him, hoping my gaze is menacing. I've never had a problem fixing my expression, and through my bounding heart I so hope this ability won't fail me now.

"Don't make me."

He shoots his too-large-looking head up at me, meets my eyes, his own wide as saucers, then darts down the aisle. I run a hand through my blue hair and pray again that he won't say anything, but I know I'm a second away from being caught.

My gun against my waist, I rest my hand on it for just one more second. I'm preparing myself, though I've never needed preparation before. _I'm just a bit more cautious_, I reassure myself, though I've never needed reassurance before…

"Vahī hai! Vaha ādamī hai!"

The shriek breaks through the cabin, and spreads like a wildfire. But I don't mind. My 'fear' has disappeared into my gun and instead adrenaline pounds itself into my veins. A blank smile starts on my face.

"Bhāgō!"

That word, _run_, is like a lethal poison, a hungry snake; it slithers through them and they shrink against the walls. I know I have them at my mercy but I'm letting them go. They're not the job. The word slides through my bones, and without hesitating I grab the door handle and rip it open, heat blasting me, my hair blowing wildly.

I think, for a second, about showing them my gun and maybe making an example of shooting the kid with the eyes, but I resist the urge and instead leap out the door of the speeding train. With instincts distinctly honed, I brace myself for the landing and roll easily along the sand and sparse grass, dust clouding up around me. It gets in my eyes as I shake myself off. I know I should be off but instead I stay on my side, my cloak wrapped around me. Through my tussled hair and flying grit, I see many dark faces pressed against the windows of the trains, and I laugh aloud.

Dusting myself off, I stagger to my feet, my crooked smile not leaving my face. That's the great thing about my occupation. Every step I take I'm closer to fame, and no matter what, I'm making my name. People (mostly my targets) will tell me that there's a difference between infamous and famous, but I can't find one. Either way, people know my name.

I search around me, until in the distance I can see a small town, but it's close enough to be hid behind my hand. Better than behind my thumb.

I start toward it, and within an hour or two (I lost track after the sun became too painful to look at) I'm on the outskirts of the city. And boy, do I wonder why I was sent here.

There's nothing but shacks, dirty and ragged, piled against each other, which reminds me of its people. Bright colored strips of cloth fly in the dusty breeze, and millions of dark people are weaving in and out of each other, the women carrying baskets and the men screaming things for the most part I don't understand. I catch a few words here and there, and I'm not surprised when I recognize an insult or two.

But I'm here to do my job, not to sightsee. Quickly I switch off my cloak and leave it in the packed yellow soil, not in any concern to pick it up. A gun is a regulation here, and a few shots in the midday (or so I assume) sun won't be regarded as anything but usual.

I love walking into places like this, places I know I could own in a heartbeat, sauntering in as if I'm wearing a skull and bones. Which I almost do. But they don't know that. I blend in like paper and I travel like a plane, and I would challenge anyone to tell me apart from others.

And that's another great thing about my job. Nobody knows who I am but everybody knows my name.

I continue on, my boots kicking up copious amounts of dust, twisting awkwardly to get through the throng. I pass a large tub of filthy water, and see a few sweating boys dip down to drink from it. For a moment I'm revolted, but then I shrug it off. It's not my business anyway and I'll be out of here by sundown.

My gun is rubbing against my side with every step I take, but I don't notice it. It's normal there, as part of my person as my skin. Still, I'm a bit concerned my cover will be blown by anyone walking taller than me, looking over to see the metal through my fluttering dirty-white tunic, so I shift it over to rest snuggly behind the red sash banded from shoulder to hip.

After a while of shuffling restlessly through this unending crowd of harried people, I recognize the building I'm heading toward. I hurry my pace excitedly, but warn myself to not start forward too giddily. I don't want to appear suspicious. It's a part of the job.

Finally, I'm there, and that shivering mix is boiling inside of me: it's equal parts adrenaline, exhilaration, and pride. I already know I have this job well done, this one down, and a second if you will. It's like everybody's a winner.

I step inside the building, one of the only ones in this place, and the coolness of the shade actually chills me. Then it's soothing, and I look around. There's not much here, just furniture, but after examining the distressed town I know this must be wealthy.

And that's why I'm here to take him out.

My boss knows I pack and deliver, he knows I'm infallible and he knows I'm not to be messed with. Every bullet gets me closer to fame and every one contains my name.

I'm here for blood.

I spot the stairs and start up fearlessly, completely calm. I hear noises halfway up, and hasten toward the sound. It's the harsh yelling of a deep-throated man, and the cries of a girl. A younger woman, by the sounds of it.

None of this strikes any emotion in me, except perhaps gratitude for the man I'm taking out. Another skull for the collection. Another bone for the chain around my neck.

I kick open the flimsy wood door, and the sight behind it actually shocks me. And ignites a strange fire in my heart – mind, _mind, _not 'heart' – something I haven't felt before.

A beautiful teenage girl is sprawled on the floor, naked save for the jewelry that adorns her dark skin. A much older man, the one I'm supposed to take out, is leaning over her, fully clothed, his face twisted in fury. Upon seeing me, maybe some demented version of a knight in shining armor, she pulls herself together and kicks at the man.

He growls as she strikes him in the stomach, but as he draws back to hit her I cough quietly. My hand is twitching on my gun, my heart exploding in that odd mix of emotions and that strange fire. Suddenly it's personal to me to get that man's blood.

He turns around, and as soon as he sees me, smiling serenely, he's up on his feet in a flash. I didn't expect a showdown, nor do I get one: the moment he's up so are his arms. My gun has been whipped out, and my two hands are clenched on the hilt. I can't wait to see his blood splashing on the ground, maybe on me, but there's something sweeter in this moment of anticipation, his abrupt, and I know blinding fear, and my satisifaction.

For a moment, though, my finger on the trigger and the man in the crosshairs, my eyes stray to the girl. My gaze is suddenly locked in hers, and I know I'm completely in her power as long as my sight is trained on her.

Her eyes are green like the young boy's, and I'm suddenly frightened that I'll be – no, I can see it dawning in those emarlds that she knows me. But as she's curled there, where she's pulled herself against the wall, it's not fear in her face. It's…_desperation._

That fire sparks in my heart – there's no denying it's my heart now – and I snap my gaze at the man again. I see cowardice in his eyes. I don't care.

No more waiting, no more wondering, no more letting this beast slip away with his crimes. No more.

And I pump the gun, and the bullet with my name strikes between his eyes. Just like that, it's over.

Maybe happiness really is a warm gun.

My body's shaking from adrenaline, that weird fire, but I dive to catch his body before it tumbles to the floor anyway. His blown head is dripping down my leg but I ignore it, and hastily catch the blood in a container my boss gave me.

But as I do this I glance over at the girl. Her lips are wide in shock, but her eyes have the utmost relief in them. And for the first time I want to smile for having done something good.

But I'm the man lying with his eyes, with my hands busy working overtime. I'm the pirate with crossbones and skulls, I'm the man with sheer danger packed inside. I'm not a savior.

But she looks at me like I am, those green eyes showing the utmost thanks.

I can't stand it.

But I'm not evil, either. This is third-world democracy, this is cruel and true punishment.

I can't stand it.

I put the stopper on the bottle and get to my feet, kicking the man away without any respect for the dead. I'm not afraid of ghosts of the people I've killed. I have my own ghosts to deal with.

I can't stand it.

I need my fix, and I'm going down, I can feel it. I need it. I need it.

And then I'm staring down the barrel of my gun at her, and my fix is her. I wonder what her blood will look like when it flows, but I imagine it'll be sweet. Satisfying, maybe. As satisfying as the man's had been.

But then I look into her eyes – she traps me like the boy did. I'm caged, frozen still with my finger about to pull the trigger. I used to feel so safe when I felt my finger on that trigger, but now I feel numb, clumsy, _bad. _It's not a feeling I'm associated with. And I hate it.

But her look – that expression, so like a doe caught in the headlights. I could end it. I could pull the trigger, I could jump the gun –

I hate that idea more than the feelings, and I thurst it away disgustedly. Roughly, almost ashamedly, I loosen the gun and shove it back down my shirt to its home near my hip.

I step toward the window she's crouching underneath, without looking at her. I hear her offer up weeping thanks, but I merely grunt and place a boot on the sill. I feel rather than hear the question on her tongue, and ignore this also. With a steady hand on the side of the open window, I observe the ground below.

A small, striped awning is trembling below me in the summer gale, satisfactory enough. I climb into the window, but a part of me wants so dearly to gaze on those eyes again, but I fight it.

And instead I drop myself out the window, a flying phantom with thousands' blood on my hands. I bounce shortly onto the awning, but unfortunately the plunging murderer must have attracted some attention, because that cry is ringing through the people again.

"Vahī hai! Vaha ādamī hai!"

I leap off the awning and roll to a crouch, then spring away through the startled crowd, the one the phenomen hasn't reached yet. The ones that don't know my name. The ones that haven't had a bullet put through them.

I'm just a man trying to make my name, because there's no difference between famous and infamous. Every pounding, lightning-fast step is taking me closer to fame. Never forget my name.

"Ike!"

A/n: **Ending's not my favorite, but I wanted it sort of abrupt. I do hope you enjoyed because this turned out so much better than I hoped for. Also, this was set in a third-world India, and I was inspired by Slumdog Millionaire, as well as going off what I saw in that. So I apologize for any confusion/mistakes. **

**Thanks to: JSparks: Dang, you caught me:P I'm so glad you like it! I was so worried haha. Thank you, about my brother. And I've been meaning so much to read your story! Hey, if you encourage me (which you do every review) I'll encourage you and we'll both get to the end:D MoD: Thank you so much, I hope you know what that means to me, that when I'm so "raw" as you put it you still enjoy it. No no, Mr. MoD, thank you:D**

**Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, and please review!**

**~Araceli L – and by the way, I hope you know that even though I do put that at the end of every piece, I sincerely mean it. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope it brightened your day in any way, and thank you so much for reading. I'm honored to have people read and consider and even treasure my work, (I hope that doesn't sound arrogant) it's so kind. And of course I'd like you to review:D**


	7. Ghost

A/n: **SCEREW THE INTERNET. It just deleted every damn thing I just fixed, and now I have to go through and edit everything again. CURSE YOU. -.- . :*( Anyway...before the author's notes were added in, this piece's word count was 666. Ha. Go figure.**

**Ghost**

I miss those days when everything was simplier.  
>I miss when we used to laugh, when we could do anything we wanted.<br>I miss the days when we thought we were the best.  
>I miss the days when we were friends.<p>

I feel like my life is a clock with the hands missing. It's ticking and running, the clogs spinning and the gears thrashing. I feel like my life is constantly rushing forward but I never seem to know what time it is.  
>I just wish I knew who I was.<br>Then, just maybe, I might still have you.

I wish I wasn't plagued by all these words, by all these worries;  
>I wish it didn't matter what everybody thinks.<br>I wish I could stop the clock, or at least count the time. I wish I could spin it back to another day. I wish I could warn myself of everything I know now.  
>Where did I go?<p>

I wish I could find you again. Not this ghost that looks like you.  
>I wish you still talked the way you used to, though your voice sounds the same; I wish you wouldn't feed me what I take to be lies.<br>I wish I knew that they were lies.

I wish my clock would stop turning if just for a moment;  
>I wish your ghost wasn't so dominant. I wish I could rip that ghost out of you, and make you into who you used to be. Who am I?<p>

I want to be your friend again. I want to laugh and I want this clock to stop ticking forward, so dooming, so constant, so cold. I want time to stop. I want to cast off your ghost.  
>It's like shooting the moon.<p>

I'm looking through you, everytime I see you. I don't know who you've become, and I don't know what we are anymore. I can't bear to think about it. I don't want to remember that you were one of the best things I've had.  
>I just want to shoot the moon.<p>

I'm looking through you, and I don't know where.

Please step away from your ghost. That's all I ask; that's all I wish for and all I want. I want you to be yourself again.

Because maybe...if you weren't a ghost...  
>I could find myself again.<p>

But what am I supposed to tell you now?  
>I'm sorry that I let you down?<br>Good luck with shooting the moon.

Please let these wheels stop turning and let me stop trying; why can't you see how much I need you? Everything pulls at my heart and sketches tears in my eyes; I don't think I'm stable enough for this. Can you please remember when you weren't a ghost? Can you remember when we were friends? I'm so shattered.

I know we were just kids. Maybe that's what makes it better. Maybe that's what makes it worse.  
>I want to who we were again. I want to tell myself to never grow up. I want you to be you. Not this ghost.<br>You're not who I knew. I'm not who you knew.

Why can't I stop the clocks?

Perhaps it's because tomorrow never knows, but I used to know. But maybe that's what life is about. Learning today what you should have known yesterday. Watching spirit fade out of you until you're a ghost. Walking the path littered with broken dreams. Realizing what and who you've wronged after it's too late.

But I just want you back.

You're a ghost because you're not yourself. I think you fake it. I think you're not happy, because I knew you, and you were happy. When we were friends. Why can't that happen again?

Because maybe you're not actually a ghost.

Maybe...

Maybe you actually aren't telling me lies. Maybe you actually are happy the way you are.

Maybe you're glad you've changed.

Maybe you like being a ghost.

Maybe I'm the one who's changed.

Maybe I'm the ghost.

A/n: **So, I was kinda disappointed by the number of reviews I got on this and The Prince's Tale, but if I start caring too much about it I've need to give myself a mind makeover. I shouldn't care so much. Either way, oh well, I like this. It's not intended to be poetry, more like a stream of thoughts. Inspired by looking at old photos that made me sad.**

**Thanks to: AAR: *timidly steps into Lair* Yea, that's what I was thinking too. What I hoped to achieve, anyway, with the format. Hehe, thanks for reviewing(: EggplantWitch: I was so confused by your first paragraph. Does Coldplay have any relevance to the characters being portrayed in the fics?:P Haha no but really, the truth is I'm letting you kinda pick the characters, because I have the feeling not too many people see this so I'm going crazy and mostly freewriting:D there, you know my secret. And yyup, I like to be vague because it does realy give you so many options. Ha, when I wrote it, I thought about him being drunk tooXD I actually wrote it thinking the person (or being) was domestically abused, but hey, I like your idea better! Thanks for reviewing:D**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and please review.**

**And MoD's contest should definitely be soon! Finally got my part in so it should definitely be soon:D**

**Much love,  
>~Araceli L<strong>


	8. Amnesia

A/N: **Welcome to a Grammar Nazi's worst nightmare. And yea, I'm jumping one word ahead, but I'll be on the right one next chapter.**

Amnesia

Thunder. Lightning.

What is this …place?

Anger. Outside. Yesoutsidethat'sit. Outside. Anger…in outside.

_THERE'S NO MORE AND THERE'S NOTHING OUTSIDE OF WHERE YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT_

That… what outside…say. Says. Yessaysthat'sit. Thunder lightning. Anger. Outside.

These things. Flatng. Flaotng. Floating. Yesfloatingthat'sit. Floating in me. What they say. In me.

?

The…things are..anger. Notheyarenot. Not…clear. Clear like outside is not. Outside is anger yes it's anger and these floatings are not anger they are not outside they are in me so they are clear.

No they are not clear. Why…can't I get it….right. Right. Right.

!

Whycan'tigetitright!

Help…me.

Please.

I…didn't mean to

_breathe_

be…anger.

I didn't mean.

To HURT

_please_

you.

A/n: **Hoorah for drabbles. I hope you don't think this is some cheap way for me to get a chapter out; I wanted to try to capture the fuzzy way of thinking. I decided to stop it short because you can only take so much of that kind of writing. Mostly the reason I wrote it is because I was trying really hard to get "Ghost" out by I ended up hating the way it was being written, even though I love the idea. So yyup I skipped a chapter, but I'm going back. I just need a break from the other one. I won't do this again, I promise.**

** Oh, wait, I wanted to say: In regards to the last chapter, I was disappointed in myself. Because I knew, and even halfway though I had a thought "what if I wrote somebody awesome in, unexpected?" (true story) that I shoulda threw someone else in there. It was my instinct, but I didn't follow it. So I'll make sure to go with my gut next time(: **

** Thanks to: JSparks: thanks for reading! Why, thanks you:D and I am missing much:( MoD: haha I still am sorry, but why thank you! Eh, I wanted to make it seem badass. I write too much fluff. (I had to use context clues on 'juxtaposition'.) Yup, MIA's(: Thank you for grasping exactly what I was trying to write! Now that I think about it I shoulda made him shoot the kid…Growl, like I said (growl on me, not you xD) I knew I shoulda gone with my gut:/ thanks though! EggplantWitch: mostly the reason it's not Snake is because I have him in mind for a different one-shot, one that makes him much more eympathetic than this fic called for. And it's quite alright, thanks for reading them and I appreciate this review(: Woot! 3 more chapters till I break the 10 chapter mark!:D**

** Pretty much shortest fic ever. Well, nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, and please review.**

** ~Araceli L**


	9. Death

**Death**

The sky was quiet and innocent on the warm September day, and the young being stared at the winds.

Oh yes, he could see winds; the glowing eyes on his mask allowed him to see quite a few things normal people couldn't. Spirits, the stars, emotions. It was a mind-blowing technology he wasn't sure he liked.

Anger was black, as opposed to the red everyone expected, and he hated to see it. It was like peering into the depths of the soul, or at least a dark room with your stomach churning; peace was a glorious green, with images of swirls around it; depression was red, dripping like paint. The colors of his mask responded in turn, and he had begun to worry they were starting to influence him.

But no matter. Seeing into the soul wasn't what he was concerned about right now. The Mansion was mostly a dull grey, wan and waxing like the moon. Sometimes a Smasher would dance by with a world of color plunging around them, brightening the gloomy landscape; Meta never noticed anymore. The sky was his only gaze.

The sky was blue. Blue blue blue. Indigo, cerulean, cornflower blue. It never changed. It hadn't ever, even though it could be lost behind grays and whites and yellows; even in the sunset it was blue. It always came back to him.

And all he wanted to do was lose himself in that blue.

People made the mistake all the time of his age. When asked and refused to answer, he'd gotten speculations of 35 to over 200. And he'd laughed at every one of them.

He was eighteen.

He liked to joke (to himself, of course) that he was middle-aged. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he could essentially read into everybody's soul, and the soul is lot more truthful than the mind. Maybe it was that he could see things that were normally hidden.

And there's a reason those things are hidden.

But now he just wanted to soar in the great beyond, float on the winds that were a color he couldn't name. They whirled among the everlasting blue of the sky, and he longed to be there so badly.

If only…

His hope caught in his throat; his heart in his lungs; his head in his hands, he needed to jump. That blue. It was so cruel to him, so taunting and beautiful. So pure. Never changing. Endless.

How much (longer) would he live like this?

The lights in his mask began to glow a murky red, like blood in dirty water. But he couldn't see that.

And that was the problem.

He could see colors just fine, the spirits with their florescent pinks and various noises; what he couldn't see was his own emotions. And in times like this, when he was uncertain about his every feeling, it wasn't exactly helpful. It was why he stayed as far away from the Smashers as possible. He wasn't worried about offending them, exactly; most squealed when they heard his accent anyway, forget if he was insulting them or asking something. He was terrified of hurting them.

He lifted his head out of his small mitten-like hands, and the eyes of the mask were a gleaming gold. It was genuine fear, concern for his fellows; he liked them all, despite the occasional misunderstanding and his antisocial personality. They were (for the most part) a nice group of people.

But there was also a part of him that warned him otherwise. This was the part that the gold stemmed out of, blossoming like an enchanted tree, each branch a different possibility. He was high in that tree now, and he couldn't glide his way down any more than he could leap into the sky.

Because there was so much _truth _in the roots. That truth made up the trunk of the tree, as he clung desperately to it.

That truth. The terror. The truth that made it so terrible. The idea that maybe, if he lost control, he would be justified in killing them. It was such a real possibility he quaked in his boots. Often, _too _often, his eyes flared black and he destroyed everything in his rampage; true, the Smashers thought they had nothing to be scared of, because this was mostly during matches; but _mostly. _There had been one particular time…

But that was long ago.

As far as he knew, they had no idea about his little "gift". Very few had ever speculated that the changing lights might mean something other than Meta's head was a disco ball. And only one had actually matched the shifting colors to emotions, and unfortunately, he was in love with her. And he knew quite positively that she knew that.

He supposed it didn't matter much anyway. She was a human being, he was a puffball. She was older than him, anyway, could buy legal beer (by MH's standards; Meta had been drinking ever since he could remember in his home planet), as pointless as that seemed. But to him it widened the gap between their compatibility; the simple things she could do that he could not.

He got to his feet from where he was sitting (it was little more than a slide of his boots, and his head didn't bob), and his eyes transformed into a lavender butterfly, spiked with white. It was wistfulness he was feeling. And he knew it.

But at the thought of Samus his eyes went gold again. Ah, yes, he'd gotten wrapped up thinking about her. She was the one thing that could distract him from this terror, but not anymore.

_No no no dammit no_!

And he sprang off the roof he was standing on, not forgetting for an instant that he couldn't fly. He launched himself into the blue anyway, enjoying, for a moment, the feeling of weightlessness and plummeting; his eyes were a vivid orange. The next second, he _fwiped _open his wings, and glided gently on the indescribably colorful wind to the ground. His eyes were now that murky red again.

It wasn't that Meta _wasn't _in touch with his emotions. It was that they were faint. Dull. It was that whatever he saw around him affected him so much stronger. It was that he couldn't read his own, true emotions.

Only having a taste of the sky was so much worse than not having one at all. It was having the gold goblet and being denied the wine; it was the pinch of salt and rejected the meal. It reminded him a bit of the distorted way he was forced to view his own feelings; only a taste, indistinct and hazy.

_Gold._

The emotions from the Smashers were so bright, so unforgettable. And yes, he loved them. He loved that they were all so brave, strong, and fun (though "fun" is used loosely). But some of those emotions weren't a good thing.

It hurt him to see a cloud of black swarming over little Kirby, one of the gentlest of them all; it was upsetting to see red hugged around Peach as she slunk in a quiet corner of the quiet Mansion with her quiet sobbing, and to see it was still red months after.

But it was mostly that orange jumping in pops around Luigi as he strangled Samus.

Meta had been on an unlucky streak that day, or so it seems in retrospect; he had lost his two matches, his place in the semi-finals, had an argument with MH and Link (who taunted his accent, he'd replied in turn that at least he could drink, earning a loud shout of restraint from MH), and scratched up Galaxia. He had just been wondering if it could go any worse when he accidentally stumbled across Luigi's red face in a wide smile, with Samus clutching at her throat.

It had been a weird thought, but it'd come to him anyway: she simply couldn't ever look un-beautiful, no matter what. His eyes always turned a pale blue when he saw her, and she had always smiled in return, like she knew a secret; he always compared that smile later to the Mona Lisa. Now, with her hair falling in ribbons around her face, her color was the most shocking gold he'd seen in a long time. And he couldn't bear it, no, of course not, not even if he hadn't loved her as much as he did.

His eyes went black.

It hadn't taken long to wrestle Luigi off of Samus, who retched in the corner, pretending she didn't have tears welling in her beautiful, frightened eyes; Luigi, in turn, had the strangest aura about him. Meta sampled it as he threw lightning fast strikes at him: gold, yes, but red and black were prominent there, the orange rapidly fading. Nothing equaling Meta's black. But something else was there, too, in the bottom of the mix: white. In retelling the story to Samus, he would call it the "silver-lining" because he knew he could feed on it. The only problem was that he wasn't sure what the white was.

In the months following that incident, Meta became something of a legend. In turn, he prolonged and kept his distance from the Mansion and the people inside of it, mostly trying to avoid Samus, and the blue that fixed in his mask when he saw her.

Because when he'd knocked Luigi unconscious, and rushed over to Samus, who lay collapsed on the floor, her face flushed, he'd seen a tint of yellow. Pale yellow, like a veiled dandelion.

It was a dash of hope.

But when her eyes, finally opening, had found his mask, he'd seen the yellow plunge to pale pink. Disappointment. Sadness. Then, meeting his eyes behind the lights, she'd seemed to realize it and the color was now deep, dark blue. Shame.

Then the awkwardness cleared, though it had been tangible seconds before, and she thanked him over and over.

But it didn't matter.

Meta didn't realize it, but he had caught on rather quickly: his eyes were dripping red. He knew it. His reflection didn't tell him anything; it never had. Perhaps the most worrying thing was the white in the back of his mind. It was clearer than any of his emotions had been over the past few months, and seemed to grow quietly beside the tree of gold.

Now, standing in the back of the Mansion, his wings still outstretched, he sees that the white flower is up to his level on the gold tree. Can he grab it? He can certainly feel it grabbing him.

He isn't naïve. He knows exactly how dangerous this white could be.

But he doesn't care.

Now, Meta takes out his sword. He wants to say a short goodbye, just in case this doesn't work; but there's no one to say farewell to. If he could, he'd kiss Samus on the forehead as she slept, like a passing ghost, the way he saw her parents do once. It doesn't matter.

He has to find out the meaning of this new emotion. And to do that, he will stab himself. You see, when he does, a burst of colors comes forth: confusion, anger, revenge, shame, sadness, hope. Hopefully white will be a part of that rainbow. He knows it's a long shot, but this is his surefire method; if you rule out A, you can rule out B. It was the way the alphabet worked; it is the way his colors work.

And if stabbing seems too extreme, you had to be extreme to find out what it was. The hurt would bring forth all sorts of colors. Extreme colors. And that is all he needs.

And he can heal himself, too. No worries there.

Glancing at the sky that so cruelly denied him again and again, he takes a deep breath. He doesn't know it, but white is shining from his mask. In his mind, the only color is a deep, jade green: preparation, concentration.

Then he thrusts the sword into himself, and his mind explodes in…one color.

White.

_White?_

Thinking it must be a mistake, or perhaps he's been ridden of his burden, he tries to yank the sword out. But his arm is limp.

_What is this?_

His feet collapse underneath him, and his wings frame his head as he drops to the ground.

And as colors begin to swirl in his eyesight – in front of his eyes, not his own feelings – he starts to realize something. And for the first time he hears music, instead of seeing it; it's soft and calming, and feels like a waterfall. It takes him back to the time he first saw Samus. How his eyes were the blue of the sky.

And white…

It is colorless. It is the sky after the leaves have fallen; it is a dead man's gaze; it is the lack of yellow, of gold, of blue. It is the loss of blue.

White is colorless, because death has no color.

**A/n: So, this turned out better than I thought, considering I made it on the fly yesterday to console an anonymous reviewer that I was indeed following guidelines. Some people really got their panties in a bunch. Anyway. Hope this story wasn't too bad. (I feel like it is…too melodramatic, or something.)**

** Thanks for reviewing my other story, those who did! And thanks on here to: wait, wait, I'm keeping the replies short because I have a book to read. To: JSparks, Anyone (great to talk to you again!) MessengerofDreams, and Eggy. (hehehe) Thanks so much guys! I'm glad I managed to make it personal. I promise I'll give individual replies again after this chapter.**

** Thanks for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoyed!**

**~Araceli L**


	10. Dream

A/n: **so, I wrote this a while back (February, I think it was) and didn't know where I was going with it. I think you can tell it's an earlier work because of the blinding descriptions – when I went back and found it I was appalled by the horror of them. So many! It was like a top-heavy fraction. I've tried to tone it down, hopefully I did ok without losing what I hope is the "dreamy" feel. Symbolism be your best friend in this fic.**

**Dream **

_Now I lay down to sleep;  
><em>_I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  
><em>_If I should die into the night  
><em>_Angels, wake me in Heaven's light._

I envisioned something, the other night, as I lay my head upon the midnight clear. It seemed as though the moment my eyelids sunk over my eyes, my mind had embarked on a mysterious, dazzling, and astonishing voyage that not many words can be given to. I'm not certain how to describe all the things I saw in that blinding revelation, but I know I must explain it to you somehow, someway.

Because if I don't, you may never hear me.

Instantly, darkness veiled my searching, restless eyes, leaving me in a blind moment of terror. I've always feared the shadows, my dear. I think you know why.

As I contemplated opening my nervous orbs, abruptly a vision came to me.

Now, I cannot tell you how long the message played before my eyes, engulfed me its demanding gentleness. I was utterly lost inside of all the swaying colors, images, and delicate beauty of the landscape I was transported to.

In this dream, I was nothing. I was a breath on the window, a flower in the breeze, and a sigh of the content. I was nothing, yet essentially, everything. I warned you I cannot explain it; though don't give up on me yet.

Tender young stalks danced daintily in the refreshing wind, jewel-green and blindingly bright; the sky was truthfully, smilingly blue; there seemed to not be an end to things, in distance, yes, but what I mean to say was the land itself seemed immortal. It had either always been there or always would be. The sun worked hard to let the innocent place receive its rays, though the air was pleasantly and delightfully warm. The sunlight itself was clear as a crystal, the ribbons of shine fluttering through the wind as clearly as water. The sun was illuminant and white, like an empowered moon; and in fact, the moon herself was mustered a little ways away in the sweet sky. She was quiet in comparison to the boastful sun, though she glimmered with a gentleness that no braggart could gain.

"Hello, Moon," I called up to her, and she smiled gracefully down at me. Though I was nothing more than a ghost, I gathered myself around and wandered about the place, for how many leagues I cannot say. I never grew weary; I had no body to grow tired. I had no eyes, yet I took in the different beauties of the land and appreciated each one for what it was, never marveling at the strangeness of the landscape.

The grass swept my nonexistent footsteps caressingly, making me grin with invisible lips. The wind tickled my cheek, cold against my nose, warm to my palm, creating a feeling I couldn't describe in my stomach. It whistled around the meadow, striking up a wondrous tune in the hollow reeds of the prairie. The delicious music spread around, filling the sky, wrapping me in an endless world of security, peace, and that same feeling I couldn't put a name to.

Now I am pondering if I just wouldn't put a name to it.

As I continued to stride around the land, I began to realize that everything had a pattern to it. The delicate buds were all just that: delicate. The golden leaves of the widening trees around me fell in a flowing, hypnotic dance, even though there was no sign of time here; they were all beautiful and mesmerizing. The wind was gentle, the clouds were tender, and the skies were cocked with a look of intellect.

There was nothing as I glanced all around me, my eyes roving the empty place. It was beautiful. But it was almost…not enough. Perhaps that isn't right. It was incredible, but something was lacking. It was almost as if it wasn't _meant _for me.

As this new feeling of intrusion crept into my spine, so did the feelings of distrust and suspicion. I began to twist abruptly at every innocent twinkle of reeds, only to see the sashaying leaves watching me.

Gradually I continued on, my sense of paranoia reaching its zenith as I crossed into what seemed to be a different territory. Here the wind turned cold, harsh, and I could feel bitter winter penetrating my bones. Icy fingers seized my lungs, overwhelming them, freezing out my breath; yet my solid breaths were frozen in front of me. Unlike the other meadow, this one seemed to repel me, to angrily demand for my removal. I was equally repulsed, though in the glowering frost, there was a serene beauty about the place. For a moment I was almost anxious I would be drawn into this cold world of mysteriously, haunting, hateful appeal.

And then I pulled myself away; I twisted and darted from the awful land of taunting snide, away from the chills of the rigid leaves and the crackling grass.

But I could not seem to free myself from it. I needed to get away, but as I ran on, I gained no distance. Underneath me was the cracking of the snapping lawn, and the cackling wind raced beside me.

And then the infinitess seemed daunting; everywhere I saw frantically was this terrible land, no hint of the beauty I once beheld. Far in the distance, I caught sight of the meadow, but even as I rushed toward it, it got no closer. I watched in horror as the ice slunk to it, then swallowed it whole;…it was coming for me. _It was nipping at my feet_ WHAT WAS THIS HELLISH NIGHTMARE?

I was suddenly myself again. I could see my hands, unnaturally…green. My skin was green, like an emerald. A strong, freezing wind blew at me, out of the ground it seems, and I was pushed off my feet; as I tumbled down, I screamed.

It was an unearthly sound that erupted from my body, instead of my mouth. The world paused for a moment in my shock; in the next, the ice was upon me. As I glanced down (the ice viewed through a fimly, dusty lens) I realized I was as naked as a baby, but it didn't matter much to me. The ice was wrapping itself around my poised legs, tensed and ready to run; but I couldn't. I was planted to the ground as the ice wove around me.

The next parts were hazy; in all honesty I can't tell you exactly what transpired. The only thoughts running through my brain were wicked and fleeting.

Later I will realize that they are wicked because I was only thinking of _why._

Maybe some (and probably you, if you don't mind me saying so) will argue that those thoughts aren't wicked. Perhaps not. But everybody has their own perspective, don't you agree? I've grown up, now.

And then serpents were squiggling lines darting in front of my wide lids; they hissed, the color of the ice. They were growing out of the frosty barrier trapping me, and they nipped at my eyes until they bled. But as they bled, my vision cleared, the yellow lens filtering out.

And then my thoughts were dying, dying…but defiant.

This is the moment you are holding your breath. I know it. Even though you don't expect me to die, you know it's a possibility. You know I may very well be dead, but you also know it's a very slim chance. This is where it gets very anticlimactic, dear. I'm not sure for whose sake I'm sorry.

Yes, as you guessed, I can't remember much except for a white string of light. It seemed to twirl around me the way the ice had, but I could feel it's warmth. I'm assuming the glass was burst, but you can't be too sure. All I know is I woke up with my head in my hands.

The oddest thing was my skin tone. It was a brown, now. Burnt and faded looking. But as I observed it in bewilderment I could see wisps of jade peeking through. Like a withered plant.

I gathered myself again (I was floating matter when I woke, though bits of me could be seen clearly; now I summoned my body, with it's weird skin), unsure what my intentions were. I supposed I could stay where I was, but when I looked, I saw the icy meadow to my left, and that's when I realized I was in the eternal meadow again. How lovely.

It was then that I thought about how great I was to create those hovering white lights to save myself. Of course it was my own power, here.

I was thinking smugly of how my power here must be as great as my power back home (just back home, not earth or reality) when I glimpsed a red glow in the horizon. It was beautiful to look at, sultry, seductive almost; without another thought my legs dragged me toward it. Something inside of me peeped up about the icy desert behind me, but then something else beat it down with the fact that the ice was _behind _me. It couldn't reach me now.

There was nothing to fear, at first.

I tried to reason that warmth was red, cold was white and blues. Anything that far away from the ice would be good. Of course it would be.

This, too, was on the edge of the meadow. My darling, I think you know how it works from here; maybe I'm not telling you because I'm ashamed.

But I must tell you. I must. Otherwise you'll never hear me.

Lava rolled below me, fire rumbled; oh yes, the fire was spitting and spewing loud words. I wasn't sure if they were words of hate or chants or curses. I suppose I'll never know.

The mere heat drew me in, and you can imagine what happened next.

I slipped into the pits of fire, my scarred flesh burning; a blue lens was thrust into my eyes, and the fire was purple through it. Then it too, like my body, drifted away, and everything was black.

I tried to call back the lights. They wouldn't come.

It was then that I realized that I hadn't made the lights, but the lights brought me here for thinking so. It was cruel revenge, and I cried out in anger, in the blackness –

And it was also just.

Perhaps the worst thing about this dream is it's truth. As I lay here, now, my breath huge gasps and my chest heaving, my hair falling about my face, I'm terrified. I feel it in my rapid heartbeat and the flames on the verge of licking me. They're there, alright. I need so desperately to avoid them.

But I think I can.

And those little swirling lights arise again, soothing my breathing. If they are death I'll go sweetly, but I think not. They protect me from the fire, as they always have.

And that is what I dreamed.

A/n: **Ah symbolism, how I love thee.**

**JSparks: Ohhhh, I make you sad? :'( I don't want that! I'm sorry! Ah yes, yellow is hope (I think) and orange is joy, as explained when Meta jumped from the roof and enjoyed it, his eyes turned orange. Thanks for reviewing(:**

**Eggy: Haha, so true! Too bad I went back this chapter :P Why thank you! Only 90 now!(:**

**If this story made you massively confused (yes, it's simply **_**shrouded **_**in symbolism) feel free to PM me if you really care that much. Haha. Just thought I'd leave that option open, though I don't think it's a big deal. Also, I have a poll open on my profile (go vote!)**

**If you'd like to boogie down there. **

**YES, only 90 more chapters to go! :D**

**Thanks for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoyed.**

**~Araceli L **


	11. Delirium

A/n: **This chapter is **_**heavily – **_**extremely – inspired by Passion Pit's "Sleepyhead". If you listen to the song, I thought it perfectly described "delirium". So think of delirium and not dream when you read this. Also, like Back From Kathmandu, I wrote this fic a while ago, actually when I called my little dramatic hiatus and was trying to get over writer's block. Also, it's pretty short. Here's to chapter 11!**

**Delirium**

The night sky pulses with undesirable sounds. A voice weaves across your dreams and you can't escape. They're coming for you. They've never forgotten.

Neither have I, my dear.

I can see that you're terrified – why are you scared of me, my love? You said we were like a fire – burning solid, burning thin, like stars. The pain was flicking into my eyes, and tears were dripping from yours – fire can consume and can destroy, but isn't it beautiful when it burns?

_Wake up, sleepyhead._

The stars are burning brighter now, and you are falling closer and closer to the edge of consciousness. You burst. All their lions are clawing at you, against your skin, just as I am. All their might and all their thirst are consuming you, just as I want to. Can you hear me? Listen to the sounds of sliding – isn't it precious, my dear? Just as you are. I'm here against the rules! Forgive me, can't you?

_Wake up, sleepyhead._

Remember me...

Of course you won't, or so laughs the lions. They've proved to you they can burn holes through the walls of your conscious, can't you remember that I'm the one that dragged you back? I'm not here to terrify you –

Unless you want me to.

Can't you please remember me?

_Wake up, sleepyhead._

They could never think of things to say but it was always me. I watched your eyes rove in the fire-burnt darkness, like September skies. It was always my whisper to bring you back.

_Wake up, sleepyhead._

Remember me…

A/n: **In other news, I got Owl City's new album New inspiration, here I come! Thanks to: Eggplant Witch: Ah, that's a shame then, 'cause you could gather a story from it, somewhere(: Only…er…89 left to go now:D MessengerofDreams: Why, thank you! I was honestly shocked when I reread it for the first time at all the visuals. Sure, I'll tell ya(: Oh, have I mentioned yet halfway into my fic I realized you had fic just like that. So I wanted to say I wasn't trying to plagiarize your idea! And thanks(: Hehe, I don't think any praise could be over the top, no matter what you say. :3 Many thanks! *curtseys***


	12. Desire

**A/n: Huzzah for posting this late so nobody will read it :3 Again, this was prewritten. Part of it is laziness, another is I thought it would fit perfectly, and the last part is my returning writer's block :( I'm not excited at all about that…Anyway, enjoy you guys some fluff. Fluff fluff fluffy fluffity fluff! (Hey, the word is "desire". I can't resist, you know that.)**

**Desire**

Damn you. Seriously. You, with your far-too cute grin, that annoying yet irresistible smirk you gave me when I get something wrong or you do something right, when I get a lower score than you or you do something better. Damn that smug smirk. Damn your adorable smile, all sincere and innocent and freaking _adorable_ when I say something witty, or I do good on something or when I beat you. Damn it when you look at me with your head slightly turned, glancing up through your lashes, smiling that heart-melting smile and giving me that far-too cute look of innocence. Damn it when you do something absolutely crazy, being a complete dork, like when you serenaded me or convinced me you could sing amazingly, or when you decided to do it in an accent and from then on everything else was in a that stupid accent. Damn it when you looked down at me, and I felt like I was in a moment, I felt special. Damn how quickly my heart melted. Damn you.

You're so sincere, and curses for being so. You're far too sincere, too honest all the time. You're a complete goofball and you look like one - maybe it's one of the reasons I like you so much. Because that's just _you_ - A reason I like you so much.

I don't know if I've ever met a guy like you before. You're never afraid to be who you are, and you're utterly believable. I have a hard time imagining you being any other way. And that's the way I want it. If you weren't you I wouldn't be so madly in love.

"In love", I guess, but I know I don't know the true concept and nature of love, because I'm young. But you know what I think? I think that nobody ever knows the true thing of love. Even soul mates. We just keep guessing as we go along, and that's why love's so unpredictable. So why couldn't I say I'm in love? (Or a type of love, anyway.)

Sure, I'm just a girl - you're just a boy; we're barely adults. But I'm having all these feelings for you, even if you're not or might be. I can't help it. Maybe it's the hopeless romantic in me, maybe it's something else, but whichever it is these feelings are real and I can't deny them.

I'm trying to make this letter honest - I don't want to put my rose-colored glasses on you or paint you as anybody you're not. And I guess that's the great thing about it. You're never anybody you're not.

Your sincerity - it's so beautiful and I don't know if you know how much it means to me. But it scares me. Oh, yes it does. It terrifies me, in a way no horror movie can do. I suppose that's because the idea of being hurt is something far worse than the idea of being scared.

You're sincere, genuine around everybody - and that's what scares me. I know it shouldn't. And it shouldn't. But it does, and here's why: it makes me doubt your feelings for me. You act around me the way you act around everybody else - so what if I'm not special? What if in those moments - that you looked down at me and I looked up at you - when it seemed as though I was special, like the world stopped for a second - what if that happens to any other girl you've persuaded to fall in love with you? What if I'm just a picture in your memory, frozen and forgotten? What if I'm just another girl?

And I don't want to be - I want so badly to be YOUR girl - not just "another girl" - that it scares me, too. Yes, I'm afraid I've fallen too much in love with you. But I can't seem to help it.

And why? WHY?

Damn your charm, your sly smile and the way you laugh. I took such pleasure - far, far too much - when I made you laugh. I felt special again. Damn how special you make me feel. Damn your competition - the way it clashed with just how competitive I am - damn how perfect you are! With your amazing laugh and breathtaking smile and cute expressions and charming behavior and beautiful voice and talent and ability and determination. I know a lot more than just your physical features. You're very talented. You're determined. You're strong. You're intelligent, so intelligent I actually feel challenged, for one of the first times. And I like it too much. Damn how perfect I find you.

I just don't know what we have in common, and that's what scares me the most. I could name plenty of reasons I can't stop thinking about you, I can name hundreds of things I love about you, I could name thousands of good things, but I can't name what we have in common. I can't. I want to, because I want so badly to be with you, but what?

Damn your randomness, the way you're exactly what I'm looking for. Damn how you keep everything fresh, almost so that I'm almost a step behind (but not quite). Damn how that exactly what I want. Damn you.

Damn the day you teased me - but I almost thank you for doing so. You're bold. You could taunt me a little (and I'm not making an excuse for you when I say I just need to work on my temper). And it hurt for a minute, it really did, you hit home. But I think you did it without knowing and I do think you're sorry. Besides, I got a hug of apology and damn did that feel good. I felt really special again.

And when you kept me company for the day. It felt so good to feel so special. I wanted to be jealous of you. In a good way. I am jealous when I see you with others. Because I want you. Because I want to preserve what we have - whatever this is - and...I...how do I say this...I want you to love me.

And the next day, the way something sparked in your eyes when you saw me. I got a few people saying I looked really pretty, but the only person whose opinion mattered to me was you. And it was just as good that you came right up to me, even when I only glanced at you, and apologized for what had happened. Granted, you were still laughing, but I'm not sure how I'd feel without that beautiful laugh. It's so...boyish? Immature? Goofy? It's YOU. And yea, you're kinda immature. But in a good way, because that's only part of you. You can be serious too, but I love your light-heartedness. It's just what I need.

What I want you to understand is that when I say "Damn", I mean "I love". I say "damn" because I'm scared of what I'm feeling. I say it because I'm scared of how much I...like you. I say it because I'm trying to protect myself from the hurt that will come if you don't feel the same way about me. But really, it's too late now, isn't it? I'm head over heels, and I will be hurt when it comes to an end. Which I hope it never does...I'm far too much in love with you. I can't save myself now, and it looks like only you can.

And that's all I want.

What I want you to know is this: ...I have no words to explain it. I don't know how to sum everything up, but...I guess what I'm trying to say is...I think I love you.

A/n: **Ah, fluff galore. You know…I can't find a Smasher to fit this. But it's written by…Nana. And imagine how scandalous it would be if she was in love with an older man! Dang…I call dibs on that idea.**

** Thanks to: JSparks: thanks for your 2 reviews! I'm sorry for my crappy review of your story:( and hey, what's your deviantart name? No matter what I searched I couldn't find you! Thanks for reviewing(: Oh, no one else reviewed. I would complain about it but I feel like if I did that I'd also be writing "hypocrite" hahaha. **

** Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed (and didn't drown in the fluff) and please review!**

** ~Araceli L**

**P.S. – if you have time, shimmy on up to my profile and take my poll. Need some feedback. If you already have, thanks(:**


	13. Destruction

A/n: **Look at me, skipping yet another word. Hopefully I'll have "Destiny" up soon, and if the Masked Jay is reading this, I still promise I'll do Ganondorf for "Despair".**

**Destruction**

The air exploded around the soldier as he threw himself to the ground. This was, of course, what he was used to; however, it always gave him a jolt when another explosive went off a little too close to his head.

_What the fuck, soldier! _he screamed to himself, to his army around him: it was all of their fault, him and them at the same time. He was the colonel, but they were the ones screwing up.

_Break down the opened road! _He picked himself off the ground, brushing off his uniform and stomping angrily on the hand of another fallen comrade. That one scowled for a moment, met his commander's glare, then got off after him and started repeating the order.

Ah, how good it felt to be in charge.

_Comet, come down!_

The other soldier, however, shuddered and wished to himself for the millionth time that he hadn't been forced into this. Then he hated himself for lying.

_My midnight melody is now the screams of bombs, _he recited to himself. Then he laughed. He was never supposed to be here.

_Fight back the undertones, men!_ shouted his commander.

_Maybe I'll fly_, he thought dreamily, _to save my life._ This soldier, nicknamed "Snake" to mock him for how many times he hit the ground, shook his head and started running. A whistle sounded around him yet again, and he sprung forward, rolling smoothly on the ground; bits of debris speckled his face as he began running again.

_Get the emperor, boys!_ the colonel demanded. _We're not afraid to die!_

_ Maybe you're a kamikaze,_ Snake thought, _but I'm only not afraid of dying alone._

He yanked his gun off his back, and shot an oncoming civilian, feeling nothing at all as the bullet entered the woman's skull. Right now, it was all about saving himself.

_WE GOT THEM NOW! GO!_

_ Maybe I'll fly, to save my life. Maybe I'll fly with the Eagle Eye._

But he charged forward anyway, the trees swinging around him in the blasting wind; his troops raced around him in the usual march dance, coughing, bloody. They were fighting somewhere terrible, they were told.

_Comet, come down!_

_ It's strange_, Snake thought, as he was suddenly the only one in the open road; _I'm called Snake for mockery and Comet as my code-name; _he didn't bother glancing around for everyone else, because he knew where they were; _they are all kamikazes, unlike myself;_ abruptly the place was quiet, as if his hearing had slowed; _yet they picked me; _he had yet to raise his gun, his colonel watching smugly and warily; _but I think I know why._

And then the silence broke: _Comet, come down!_

And in one fluid motion Comet raised his gun and started pounding out the bullets, his eyes trained stiffly on his target, the Eagle Eye. Yes, even in those brief seconds he had left, he knew why they picked him.

_I'm not a kamikaze; _his troops, his fellows were breaking formation around him; _I'm not a soldier; _"Comet, come down!"; _I'm the most mocked, the worst, a joke;_ bullets were spraying the dusty soil into his eyes, stinging, but they remained stubbornly open as he fired;_ so why did they pick me?; _they were flying around him, suddenly a blur as the Eagle Eye pierced him; _because I'm not afraid of dying alone;_ and his thoughts were suddenly clear again; _it's not even because I'm a traitor in my thoughts_; and he knew this was his last stand; _it's because I give so much to the end._

Just like a comet.

_Comet, come down! _

Coming down only happened once.

_Come down, be our kamikaze, boy. Come down._

_ Yes, sir._

A/n: **Yayz for skipping yet another word. Sigh, I couldn't help it, got writer's block then with thanks to MoD, this sucker popped out of nowhere! And an Owl City song. Inspiration's gotta come from somewhere. Anyhoo, thanks to MoD: since we've already discussed this, thank you so much! Damn ya bro:D**

** Reviews? Bah, don't need you:P But thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!**

**~Araceli L**


	14. Destiny

**A/N: Goin' back for the chapter I missed. I suggest reading this along with this **_**gorgeous**_** piece of music: Nuvole Bianche, by Einaudi. Truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard, and what I listened to as I wrote this.**

**Destiny**

What is destiny?

This is the question mankind has been asking for centuries – long before you or I were born. However, this is one question more immortal than that:

Do we have a destiny?

I think, that, at one point, I wondered the same thing to. But with my breath so far gone, my heart hammering so quickly yet in utter peace, I wonder now how I ever thought that.

I have a better question for you, my dear:

Do you know this earth? Have you ever gazed up at the slowly swinging sky, the way the stars, gleaming so brightly, like the eyes of some unknown world, dance so smoothly around us? Have you seen the two layers of clouds, and know that the first layer keeps us in, flat, like a cover of a bowl? Do you know about the clouds that roll and fade like the sea that twist above us?

Have you ever seen the wind caress the earth like a mother caressing her babe? Do you see the plants and life rejoicing in the breeze? Do you see how the creatures in the clouds smile down upon us? Have you seen the ocean lap against the rocks lovingly, like a pet to its master? Have you ever been hypnotized by the earth around us?

I stand atop the earth right now, my heartbeat shallow in my ears compared to the roaring sea. My head is lost in the waves of the clouds, my lungs somewhere in the dangerous beauty of the volcanoes; my feet walk in the rainforests and my hands climb an everlasting mountain. My spine tingles, my hands shake, and my heart bounds like the deer I see; but an immeasurable serenity spreads over me. The earth is at peace, if just for a moment, if just in my mind. _I'm _at peace. _My _earth is at peace.

There's nothing like the feeling of this serenity, of knowing I have this world screaming back at me of endless possibilities. There's nothing like knowing I could dive into the ocean and swim across it; there's nothing like the idea of treading and jumping and bouncing in the air; there's nothing like the thought of connecting the stars.

Have you ever danced beside the sea?

Have you ever stood there, rooted to the sand, and realized just how small you are in this world?

Have you ever realized just how big this earth is?

Have you ever known just how many possibilities there are out here?

The world is essentially at my fingertips, my fingerprints dusting the glittering stars in the ever-swaying sky. It feels like a dream, but I know it isn't. I almost wished it was, for a moment.

If this were a dream, I could find my way back.

Or so I used to think; now, I laugh, my chest heaving, my head thrown back; I think it's the best sound I have ever uttered.

I _can _find my way back.

The earth is mine, and without a price. I just have to grab ahold of it – you must take it by the hand, dearest, and lead _it _along, not let it lead _you _along. Remember that you aren't a dog on a leash.

But always remember that this world isn't ours forever.

But also remember that that is why we must make it ours while we last.

Lead it, my darling, but give it treats throughout; don't be shallow, like the people of this earth; instead, be thankful and gracious. Remember, most of all, my dear, one thing:

Just how small you are beside the ocean.

_Do we have a destiny? _I hear you ask now, quietly.

I look at you, and smile. I think it's the best smile I have ever smiled.

_Our destiny is what we make it._

A/n: **Truly, I'm proud of this piece. Written on the fly. Also, I think the relationship between "I" and "you" as a father and a daughter. Can be whatever you make it, though. Brother/sister, friends, lovers. **

** Thanks to: EggplantWitch! Why, thank you for your review, madam. I'm glad you enjoyed. :3**

** Thanks for reading, please review, and hope you enjoyed.**

**~Araceli L**


	15. Silence

A/n: **Another "unstoryish" piece...figured it worked, again. But, then again, since when have I followed the rules for this? Also, I realized I accidentally miscalculated where "Destruction" was on the list, and turns out this is the second chapter ahead of "Despair". Um, I'll get that done soon as I come up with something...but I promise not to go on until I get it done!**

**Silence**

I smile even though all I want to do is cry.

Perhaps not cry; I'm not sure what I want, and that's the worst thing about it.

Dubious thoughts of _you don't love me _float through my head, like a pouting child; _You bitch,_ rude and untrue…maybe.

Is it untrue? That's the thing that bothers me the most. Is it untrue?

And if you're a bitch…have I followed after you?

It frightens me to death of becoming like you. But I'm worried that trying so hard to stay away will only make me even more like you.

I don't understand why you can't see everything you're doing – I, a mere "child" in your eyes, see your faults and what you're doing wrong. Contemptuous as I sound, I mean that in the best way possible – I want to help.

But there's so much of me that just _hates_ you.

My problems are my own, not yours, and I will deal with them on my own; I don't understand why explaining them to you would help whatsoever. All it would do is make me feel drearier, bringing to the forefront of my mind exactly what I want kept at the back; it would make you confused, because everything's already so mixed up in my mind, and I can't explain it; and worse, I just don't want your advice. And you know why?

You would tell me something, but I wouldn't trust it. Because you never have sympathy for me. Never. Everything is about you. All the time. I find it incredible that you can fucking remember my name. I hate your excuses, especially after you promised for no more of them. You can't keep a fucking promise, can you?

But, back to my point…

I wouldn't trust it, because you don't _understand. _Now, I know I sound like some angsty teenager, but get this: You honestly don't. You've never been in a situation like mine, but that doesn't even matter, because you just don't sympathize with me, ever. I'm not asking for pity; I never have and my pride says I never will. I'm saying that empathy would make me believe you. It would show me you have gone through it and you can help.

What do I see instead?

Exactly what I'm afraid of becoming.

It's the mere fact of having to explain all of this…

And I've written a million of these, these little silent letters to you you'll never receive. It's not that I'm scared – though anxiety is a part of it. I'm cautious of that look in your eyes, where I was certain you were going to hit me. I'm worried of ruining everything, because as flawed as it is, the system works.

And mostly because somehow, though I hate you so much I can't bear it, I love you.

I'm sorry for being stressed out; I'm sorry I don't talk to you about my problems because, hey, you're at the center of most of them. I'm sorry I have a lot going on right now, that I'm dealing with _on my own,_ and I don't want to talk about them. I'm sorry I'm a human with feelings different than yours.

My apologies _to you_ for not being you.

My pat on the back to myself for the same thing.

So I'll keep silent, I suppose, until you can realize your mistakes on your own. I'll keep silent while you drag me down.

Silence is everything.

- Nana

a/n: **I know who it's for, but you don't need to. Actually, it's kind of obvious...anyway. Sorry for the explosion of emotions, heh. Thanks to: MessengerofDreams: Thanks for your review(: Wario? No way! Haha. I do like the idea of Meta Knight, though, as crazy as it sounds, I like the idea of Ganondorf too. Though it could be an old version of Link or something. Thanks for reading! EggplantWitch: Thank you, and I'm glad you like my "poetic" fics :3 Hey, Imma totally dedicate one ot you! :D**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and please review.**

**~Araceli L**


	16. Let Go

**A/n: Hi, guys. I know it's been weeks since I updated; I'm sorry. Really, it's because I'm working pretty hard to figure out how to write my official next chapter, and I keep going brain-dead, so I wrote this instead. And I feel like it's not fantastic, so I didn't want to publish it as a one-shot, so might as well put it here and take up another space. And, I realized that in the contest description, I am allowed to jump around! But, it'd be easier for me if I didn't, but you know, writing ideas and inspirations come and go, and it would be a shame to waste one.**

**Let Go**

_**or**_

**Old Houses**

The wind coasts in through the window, blowing my hair back in the breeze. Some old song plays on the radio, a Stones tune I can't name, despite my father's love of the band. It's a quiet ballad, and I think, with a wistful smirk, of how perfectly it fits my feelings right now.

But that's always the way it is, isn't it? Music has a way of explaining everything you can't.

My hands tighten on the wheel, but I feel them trembling. Part of me knows how ridiculous I'm being, and the other half silently agrees with what I'm doing.

I told myself I was just going out for a drive, but I knew it wasn't true. I've always been a terrible liar, and that's why I've always stuck to the truth.

But sometimes I wished I'd lied.

"I watched you suffer, a dull aching pain..."

Maybe if I'd lied...

"And now you've decided to show me the same."

Maybe I wouldn't be in so much pain.

But it's my fault, and I know that. I know it, now, as I'm driving through the countryside in my old Ford truck, the truck you always laughed at, but loved so much. I know it as I watch the grey road disappear underneath me. I know it as I pass the sights I always used to watch for in anticipation to see you.

I shouldn't have driven back here, several states away. I shouldn't have visited these old memories, and I know that, because I left them behind here. But they still stand, waiting for me, like these old houses.

You know why I left, and so do I. But that doesn't stop it from hurting any less.

The long grass dances beside me, interrupted only by the old wooden telephone poles. The decrepit wood is so much more welcome than the streetlamps that have been talking to me for the past few years, ever since I left you.

Faintly I'm struck by the differences in this open countryside as compared to my new city life, but I know I was made for this air. But you're here. You're in this air, an invisible pressure I felt as soon as I left my new home. And maybe, love, I was made for you.

I left my new life behind when I drove back here. I'm walking through the doors of the old houses, like I know I shouldn't be.

I know I shouldn't be.

But that's like our love, isn't it? _Was_, I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't be.

I throw my hand out the window and into the air as I think about how foolish it was. How silly it is to believe in all that "fate" and "soul mate" and "true love" shit. Love isn't destined. It happens. Nobody's controlling it, it's just a reaction of hormones and crazy heartbeats and strange feelings.

Because if any of that was true...I would still be with you.

I'm nearing the turn to your road now, and half of me, the sane half, tells me to keep driving on and on, right past it. But the part that brought me here keeps me going. Because if I listened to the sane half, I wouldn't be in the situation in the first place. I wouldn't have loved you in the first place.

And I laugh at how melodramatic I'm being. Life happens, uncontrollable and inevitable. I can't fix what I caused, anymore than I pretend it wasn't my fault.

So maybe fate really isn't in control at all. I guess it all boils down to the same question, anyway: are we making our destiny, or are we traveling some preset path?

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. White as the time I grasped you so tightly in my arms. And right now I feel like that's what our love was always like: white knuckles.

You figure out what that means.

I hate how intensely my mind is dwelling on these angsty things, like some pubescent teenager. But, our love was young and silly like that. Maybe that's why I'm acting so childish. I hate the feeling, but at the same time, I revel in it.

I remember when I met you. It's so weird to think just how _normal _it was, how easy it was, like falling into step beside somebody. Like an expert running his fingers over the piano keys, like singing...like falling. And how difficult it became, just as we realized what we'd tripped into.

We weren't ever "just friends". It was the immediate I had to hold you, had to kiss you, had to call you mine. I'm not sure if it's a bad thing that I never considered you my best friend, but I never have. But that's not why I left, though you were offended by it.

I slow now, as your driveway comes into sight. It's dumb, because it's only on the horizon, but I'm still worried about you seeing me. But...I need this. _I need this last chance._

There is no last chance.

I feel tears prick my eyes, and think about swerving over to let myself cry it out, but immediately I realize how stupid that is, and speed up. I know there's no last chance. I lost my chance when I left you alone, in the cold house, while you were asleep. I feel like I should have kissed you one last time, like I missed that one last kiss.

It's odd to think, here and now, about how much that kiss could have meant. It might have meant just as much as that first kiss did – that first kiss I could not have stolen, but did, which caused all of this. And that last kiss I didn't take – it could have made me stay. It could have given me closure, made me forget you. And it might not have changed any damn thing at all.

I'm haunted by these old memories, these old houses I'm driving by, the ones I refused to demolish for some reason, left them behind instead. It was stupid. It was stupid but also helpful...in giving me a way to come back. And that's precisely why I should have destroyed them.

I keep going, though, drifting slowly down the deserted road. I see our, _your_, house come into definition, the house we lived in because I thought I was going to marry you. My heart leaps at the sight of it, then sinks deeper than before. It kills me to think about everything we did inside that house, how we planned our lives out in there, and how we threw everything away when I left.

Then, the driveway is there, and I nervously peek up it. My old home looks closed up, and I see no cars parked. I teeter for a second in the turn, unsure, then the thought that I could be missing something the way I missed that last kiss makes me go.

I head down the gravelly way, my truck rumbling over the rocks tiredly, the driveway I pulled into during the most important time in my life. I haven't driven over this gravel since I left that cold October dawn, but it still feels natural. I look around worriedly, scared of something – what? You popping out from behind the shed? I guess I'm just scared of the shadows again.

I kill the engine, pull out my keys, then push open the rusty door. I hear the keys jingle in my limp palm as I stand for a moment, overwhelmed by everything that's happened. Then I force my legs to work, stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets. I remember when I would come walking sheepishly back like this after an argument, and how quickly you'd open the door for me when I came back. It was impossible to stay mad at you.

I pull open the screen door, resting it against my back as I shuffle for the right key. I wonder nervously if you even still live here, but I would know if you didn't. No, I don't keep tabs on you; I just know that you wouldn't leave here.

I pop the key into the lock and twist it, partly unsurprised when it opens. I never lost this key, for obvious reasons; and I'm not surprised because a part of me knows you wish I would come back.

And part of me wishes I was here to stay.

I slide open the door, and step into the cool air of the house. Abruptly I'm hit by the thought that I used to live here, that _we_ were here, that _we _were actually a thing and not just an absurd fantasy. The tile clicks under my feet as I take a few cautious steps inside, and it takes me a while of staring to realize an obvious but un-thought-of difference: the furnishing. I never even thought that you would change it from the way we had it, but it's so different now, and I hate it.

I step deeper into the house, my old home, and I'm pounded by the smell of you. But the sweet scent is tainted by something more brutal. It doesn't mesh nicely, and thinking this, I feel like a dog smelling another's territory. Then I realize I'm not the watchdog; I'm the intruder.

I'm an intruder on my own home.

I walk through the rooms, so open and clear. That, at least, is like it used to be; then, as I'm reminiscing about the huge window in the north-most room, I crash into an end table. Hearing a clatter, I reach to steady it, and pause as my eyes and hands land on a picture frame.

I turn it to face me before I can even ask myself if I want to see.

And there's you...

_Happy._

And you're surrounded by foreign people, people I don't know, have never seen. People I automatically hate...people I loathe, people I want to burn in the darkest depths of hell, because one has his arms around you and the others look like you and him. I'm not stupid. I'm furious.

I throw the picture as far as I can, and it shatters into the window, which splinters with a loud, short pierce.

The funny thing is it's not even a tragedy, that I missed that, that that could be me; no, it's because this is so damn ironic.

I stare at the shards of glass for a second longer, then keep going. Behind me, I know your frozen smile is as perfect as ever. I can only hope it's always been that way, and that you don't smile at him the way you smiled at me.

As I finish my inspection, I can't decide if I'm regretting leaving or not. And that might be the worst thing.

I find the stairs, and start up, ignoring the pictures on the wall. Instead I remember the heavily-printed rug we had draped down the steps, even though I thought it was hideous, because you loved it.

I'm on the top floor, and I peer down the hallway. Then I walk down it, and I see our bedroom, where we made love for the first time – do you remember that? I remember holding you in the early hours of daybreak. It was what made me realize I wanted you in my arms forever – not what made me want you, but made me realize.

But it also made me realize just how wrong it was.

I curl my hands into fists, staring at the bed in the center of our room, where our bed was. I want to set fire to it, but instead I shake my head angrily, my blond hair waving along my eyes. I remember the feel of your fingers in my hair, pulling me closer...and how in the later days, it made me feel guilty to comply.

Our love wasn't right, just because it wasn't. It felt like everything was working because we were forcing it to, not because it was supposed to. And any other person would have said it was perfect...but to us, on the inside, we knew it wasn't. And I know, the one day when we argued, that the question was on the tip of your tongue: why not? Why wasn't it right? Why was it wrong? But you didn't ask it, because I could see in your eyes that you knew it too. You knew I couldn't stay. You knew we weren't a lasting thing.

And I don't know if it was fate making me leave. I don't know if fate was telling me our love was wrong. I just knew, and know, that I'm not the one.

I watched you suffer those years, suffer because even though we were happy, the risk outweighed the reward. And now you've decided to show me the same, even if you don't realize it. I'm reaping my reward, you could say.

Maybe it was all the differences in us, only highlighted here: absence made my heart grow fonder, but I was out of sight, and out of your mind. And I don't know if that comforts me or not, if it tells me our love really was just as wrong as I thought, or says I made a mistake. And I'm not sure which I want it to be.

I cross the room, suddenly curious to the reason the sheets are so neat and clean. That's not the you I know, and then I see the half-open dresser. I gaze at it for a moment, then walk to it, kneeling down by the lowest drawer. Something is sticking out of it, looking like it was hastily shoved in. I pull out the drawer, and am shocked to see my shirt fall out.

I look at it, unsure what to think, but my first reaction is warmth, spreading through me like a warm drink. Then I grow cold, wondering why it was hidden (or, supposed to be) like that. Maybe you haven't forgot me, and maybe I made a mistake. Maybe my decision left you to live a life with someone you've grown to hate...maybe it's all my fault.

But it was wrong, I know it was. That's why my shirt was hidden: I'm hidden from you too. It doesn't matter if you've been missing me lately...I've missed you since I left. We weren't meant for each other and never have been. I need to destroy these old houses.

I drop the shirt, thinking, then pick it up again. I go to the nightstand, shirt in hand, and find a neat notebook and pen. Quickly, the shirt bunching under my fingers, I scrawl down what comes to mind. I don't really know what to say, especially in moments as vital as this, but I suppose the words that come are the words that really mean the most.

_ Dear Nana,_

_ I know you're disappointed in me, but you know why I had to leave, and we both know it was for the best. I'm sorry, my love...I'm sorry for coming back. But I needed to destroy these old houses. I was made for the country air, and you are the country air, but I wasn't made for you. Does that make sense? It doesn't for me, either, but none of this does. I'm just trying to get through it all, but I'll never forget that you were the only thing that made sense to me._

_ -Link_

I stuff the shirt into the crook of my arm, then bolt down the stairs and out the house. I want to be as far away as I can before you get back from wherever you are, before your realize the note is my best equivalent to the last kiss I didn't take. I think, now, as I climb into my truck, that that last kiss would have been closure, but it doesn't matter anyway. I've made sure I'm out of your life, and that you're out of mine.

So are we follow a path, or are we creating our own destiny? Have my on choices caused this, or was this supposed to happen?

I guess we're in some weird mixture of both. Because even though I caused this, maybe it's for the best.

Maybe it's for the best that the old houses were still there for me to destroy.

**A/N: Alright, quick clear-up: Nana is a few years older, obviously. Think of the way MoD would write Nana, not the way I usually write her. Just to clarify, because when I wrote it I realized how wrong it sounded, that they're love wasn't wrong because she was younger than him. She wasn't much younger, like two or three years. **

** Honestly, I feel like this a very run of the mill piece for me, but...hopefully I'll have new things to come. I'm working with an idea right now that's pretty controversial, and I can only hope I can manage to do it right. **

** Also, I tried to follow MoD's style a little bit, as he likes to write in AU modern times, but I'm not sure how I did.**

** Thanks to: MoD: Ah, well. :) Thanks. I appreciate that you say that, because it's very encouraging. JSparks: I'm glad it's relatable, really, and thank you for your other reviews!(: EggplantWitch: Hehe, well what about you? I mean, you're one of my close friends here on FF and yet I always forget to answer your emails. so the least I can do is dedicate a fic to you! I'll make sure it's about Pit. ;)**

** Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and please review.**

** ~Araceli L**


	17. i could see the stars were just stars

**A/n: WOW. IT'S BEEN LIKE...THREE MONTHS. That's crazy...but the truth is, that's life. I started highschool, and...it's awesome. I'm crazy busy, and that's why I haven't written for like three months. And I know it's ridiculous to post this here, but I want to, because I need to get back in touch. Actually, I have an announcement coming up, definitely before the end of October. Hope to see you then, and it's pretty important, so.**

**Please go easy on me with this piece. It's rough, raw...it's something I thought of. I just really wanted to play with ideas and really convey emotions. I posted it here because I love to hear what you guys think. So, enjoy.**

**when i was illuminated i could see the stars and they were just stars**

Sometimes it's not really about what we want, is it?

The screen door clicks shut behind me, creating a noise to follow me into this damp, chilly night. I climb down the brick porch easily, tromping through the sparkling grass like I've known it my whole life, though it's only been a few days.

The pavement seems to glow in the rain, puddles illuminated by pale white streetlights; I've always thought of them as sort of guardians of the night. It's silly, of course, but so is entertaining the notion that the stars above my head might just be freckles on a smooth cheek.

You always laughed at my silly notions. But it was a good laugh. It was a sweet, adoring laugh. It was a laugh you uttered whilst pulling me into you, pressing your cheek to mine. It was a laugh that you also said _you're weird_ with, and when I asked, _true, but how so?_ you said _a good weird. You weird. Just the way you are _and I smiled, fondness radiating out from me. If fondness can be used for how I felt for you.

I feel water seeping into my thin shoes, no matter how little I try to avoid it. As a cold wind blows through me, I tuck my arms below my breasts, trying vainly to warm myself.

And with a flash as quick as lightning, I remember your arms circling me as I drifted to sleep. There. I remember your hand resting on my slow, deep-breathing stomach, I remember nestling my fingers between yours. I remember when you woke and squeezed my hand, and when I sat up, when you pulled me right back to you.

Sometimes I think I'm the only one who remembers these things.

I shake my head, a lock of hair fluttering into my eyes. Impatiently I brush it away, telling myself to keep moving forward. It's all I can do now, isn't it?

A wise friend once told me that we'd all float on alright. We'll all float on okay. But sometimes I don't believe it.

The breeze sweeps past me again, rising and falling like a soprano. I want to bat it away like an annoying bug. And irrationally I think, _it's too cold a night for a broken heart. It's too cold a night for_

_ (missing you)_

_ walking, really._

I hear an owl call around me, and I look up through my lashes. All I see is the foggy sky, gray and dark and rolling, the visible clouds vibrating like violin strings. I feel a weird sense of twisting, the idea that perhaps the world has flipped upside down on me while I blinked. I wish it would.

I felt glowing when I was with you. I was _illuminated._

I can't see the stars, but that's all for the best. People say to turn the other cheek, and I suppose that's what the face up there is doing. All we can see is the freckles, after all.

_You don't believe in that._

No, I don't. But I have too.

And all at once I feel the tears come, yanked out of my eyes by the knifing wind, falling like leaves in the autumn. No, I cry in my head, but it's weak. It's sad. It's...alone.

_No no no no no...no..._

_ (why did you do this to me)_

_ no, no. no, it's going to be alright no we'll all float on remember?_

_ (you promised...you promised.)_

I beg my feet to keep steady, to keep going onward. Though the leaves of my tears, I see a guardian of the night up ahead. It swims, sways and bends, but it's there. It's real.

It's real, it's there

_(unlike you unlike everything you promised)_

and so I force my feet toward it.

It seems so dark, so black around me as the light grows brighter. It grows brighter because I know it should. Yet in my vision it's growing dimmer. It's fading, fading...just out of grasp like a secret I almost heard. I don't know what's wrong with me...

And then the black street rushes up to meet me.

Out, my hands fly at the last second. There's a startling "oomph" from me as I collapse onto the road, gravel embedding itself in my palms like some demented bejeweling. I lay there for a second, my body flat and shivering, then boost myself up.

Instantly, I want to scream.

And so I do.

I scream, my hoarse voice ripping through the night. I scream, thinking of everything, all the words you betrayed me with. I scream, remembering just how much I miss you. I scream with disappointment at how weak I am. I scream for being so delusional, for being so...illuminated. I scream at how dark I am now. I scream, and I scream.

I don't care about the houses around me, if the lights are flipping on inside or not. I don't care about the wet holes boring around my knees, the squish of the water between my toes in my shoes. I don't care about the drizzle in my hair, about the smears of black smudging my face.

I scream.

And then I stop.

Because even though I can't see the stars, they're there. Even if they aren't freckles, I have to believe they are. I know they aren't, but...

I don't have anything else to believe in.

_(I have to believe in what's not there...)_

_ I have to believe things might be alright again..._

_ (faith hope possibility)_

_ I have to believe in the things not seen._


End file.
